most powerful prince in the world. Choose whichever you desire for him."
"None of the three," returned the father. "I only wish him to be
good--the best prince in the whole world. Of what use would riches,
power, or beauty be to him if he were an evil man?"
"You are right," said the fairy; "but I cannot make him good. He must do
that himself. I can only change his external fortunes; for his personal
character the utmost I can promise is to give him good counsel, reprove
him for his faults, and even punish him if he will not punish himself.
You mortals can do the same with your children."
"Ah, yes!" said the King, sighing. Still he felt that the kindness of a
fairy was something gained for his son, and died not long after, content
and at peace.
Prince Cherry mourned deeply, for he dearly loved his father, and would
have gladly given all his kingdoms and treasures to keep him in life a
little longer. Two days after the Good King was no more, Prince Cherry
was sleeping in his chamber when he saw the same dazzling vision of the
Fairy Candide.
"I promised your father," said she, "to be your best friend, and in
pledge of this take what I now give you"; and she placed a small gold
ring upon his finger. "Poor as it looks, it is more precious than
diamonds, for whenever you do ill it will prick your finger. If, after
that warning, you still continue in evil, you will lose my friendship
and I shall become your direst enemy."
So saying she disappeared, leaving Cherry in such amazement that he
would have believed it all a dream save for the ring on his finger.
He was for a long time so good that the ring never pricked him at all,
and this made him so cheerful and pleasant in his humor that everybody
called him "Happy Prince Cherry." But one unlucky day he was out hunting
and found no sport, which vexed him so much that he showed his ill
temper by his looks and ways. He fancied his ring felt very tight and
uncomfortable, but as it did not prick him he took no heed of this,
until, re├źntering his palace, his little pet dog, Bibi, jumped up upon
him, and was sharply told to get away. The creature, accustomed to
nothing but caresses, tried to attract his attention by pulling at his
garments, when Prince Cherry turned and gave it a severe kick. At this
moment he felt in his finger a prick like a pin.
"What nonsense!" said he to himself. "The fairy must be making game of
me. Why, what great evil have I done! I, the master of a great empire,
cannot I kick my own dog?"
A voice replied, or else Prince Cherry imagined it: "No, sire; the
master of a great empire has a right to do good, but not evil. I--a
fairy--am as much above you as you are above your dog. I might punish
you, kill you, if I chose; but I prefer leaving you to amend your ways.
You have been guilty of three faults to-day--bad temper, passion,
cruelty. Do better to-morrow."
The Prince promised, and kept his word awhile; but he had been brought
up by a foolish nurse who indulged him in every way, and was always
telling him that he would be a king one day, when he might do as he
liked in all things. He found out now that even a king cannot always do
that; it vexed him and made him angry. His ring began to prick him so
often that his little finger was continually bleeding. He disliked this,
as was natural, and soon began to consider whether it would not be
easier to throw the ring away altogether than to be constantly annoyed
by it. It was such a queer thing for a king to have always a spot of
blood on his finger! At last, unable to put up with it any more, he took
his ring off and hid it where he would never see it, and believed
himself the happiest of men, for he could now do exactly what he liked.
He did it, and became every day more and more miserable.
One day he saw a young girl so beautiful that, being always accustomed
to have his own way, he immediately determined to espouse her. He never
doubted that she would be only too glad to be made a queen, for she was
very poor. But Zelia--that was her name--answered, to his great
astonishment, that she would rather not marry him.
"Do I displease you?" asked the Prince, into whose mind it had never
entered that he could displease anybody.
"Not at all, my Prince," said the honest peasant maiden. "You are very
handsome, very charming; but you are not like your father the Good King.
I will not be your queen, for you would make me miserable."
At these words the Prince's love seemed all to turn to hatred. He gave
orders to his guards to convey Zelia to a prison near the palace, and
then took counsel with his foster brother, the one of all his evil
companions who most incited him to do wrong.
"Sire," said this man, "if I were in your majesty's place, I would never
vex myself about a poor silly girl. Feed her on bread and water till she
comes to her senses, and if she still refuses you, let her die in
torment, as a warning to your other subjects should they venture to
dispute your will. You will be disgraced should you suffer yourself to
be conquered by a simple girl."
"But," said Prince Cherry, "shall I not be disgraced if I harm a
creature so perfectly innocent?"
"No one is innocent who disputes your majesty's authority," said the
courtier bowing; "and it is better to commit an injustice than allow it
to be supposed you can ever be contradicted with impunity."
This touched Cherry on his weak point--his good impulses faded; he
resolved once more to ask Zelia if she would marry him, and if she again
refused, to sell her as a slave. Arrived at the cell in which she was
confined, what was his astonishment to find her gone! He knew not whom
to accuse, for he had kept the key in his pocket the whole time. At last
the foster brother suggested that the escape of Zelia might have been
contrived by an old man, Suliman by name, the Prince's former tutor, who
was the only one who now ventured to blame him for anything that he did.
Cherry sent immediately and ordered his old friend to be brought to him
loaded heavily with irons. Then, full of fury, he went and shut himself
up in his own chamber, where he went raging to and fro, till startled by
a noise like a clap of thunder. The Fairy Candide stood before him.
"Prince," said she in a severe voice, "I promised your father to give
you good counsels, and to punish you if you refused to follow them. My
counsels were forgotten, my punishments despised. Under the figure of a
man you have been no better than the beasts you chase. Like a lion in
fury, a wolf in gluttony, a serpent in revenge, and a bull in brutality.
Take, therefore, in your new form the likeness of all these animals."
Scarcely had Prince Cherry heard these words than to his horror he found
himself transformed into what the fairy had named. He was a creature
with the head of a lion, the horns of a bull, the feet of a wolf, and
the tail of a serpent. At the same time he felt himself transported to a
distant forest where, standing on the bank of a stream, he saw reflected
in the water his own frightful shape, and heard a voice saying:
"Look at thyself, and know that thy soul has become a thousand times
uglier even than thy body."
Cherry recognized the voice of Candide, and in his rage would have
sprung upon her and devoured her; but he saw nothing, and the same voice
said behind him:
"Cease thy feeble fury, and learn to conquer thy pride by being in
submission to thine own subjects."
Hearing no more, he soon quitted the stream, hoping at least to get rid
of the sight of himself; but he had scarcely gone twenty paces when he
tumbled into a pitfall that was laid to catch bears; the bear hunters,
descending from some trees hard by, caught him, chained him, and, only
too delighted to get hold of such a curious-looking animal, led him
along with them to the capital of his own kingdom.
There great rejoicings were taking place, and the bear hunters, asking
what it was all about, were told that it was because Prince Cherry, the
torment of his subjects, had just been struck dead by a
thunderbolt--just punishment of all his crimes. Four courtiers, his
wicked companions, had wished to divide his throne between them, but the
people had risen up against them and offered the crown to Suliman, the
old tutor whom Cherry had ordered to be arrested.
All this the poor monster heard. He even saw Suliman sitting upon his
own throne, and trying to calm the populace by representing to them that
it was not certain Prince Cherry was dead; that he might return one day
to reassume with honor the crown which Suliman only consented to wear as
a sort of viceroy.
"I know his heart," said the honest and faithful old man; "it is
tainted, but not corrupt. If alive, he may yet reform, and be all his
father over again to you, his people, whom he has caused to suffer so
much."
These words touched the poor beast so deeply that he ceased to beat
himself against the iron bars of the cage in which the hunters carried
him about, became gentle as a lamb, and suffered himself to be taken
quietly to a menagerie, where were kept all sorts of strange and
ferocious animals--a place which he had often visited as a boy, but in
which he never thought he should be shut up himself.
However, he owned he had deserved it all, and began to make amends by
showing himself very obedient to his keeper. This man was almost as
great a brute as the animals he had charge of, and when he was in ill
humor he used to beat them without rhyme or reason. One day, while he
was sleeping, a tiger broke loose and leaped upon him, eager to devour
him. Cherry at first felt a thrill of pleasure at the thought of being
revenged; then, seeing how helpless the man was, he wished himself free,
that he might defend him. Immediately the doors of his cage opened. The
keeper, waking up, saw the strange beast leap out, and imagined, of
course, that he was going to be slain at once. Instead, he saw the tiger
lying dead, and the strange beast creeping up and laying itself at his
feet to be caressed. But as he lifted up his hand to stroke it, a voice
was heard saying, "Good actions never go unrewarded"; and, instead of
the frightful monster, there crouched on the ground nothing but a pretty
little dog.
Cherry, delighted to find himself thus metamorphosed, caressed the
keeper in every possible way, till at last the man took him up in his
arms and carried him to the King, to whom he related this wonderful
story from beginning to end. The Queen wished to have the charming
little dog, and Cherry would have been exceedingly happy could he have
forgotten that he was originally a man and a King. He was lodged most
elegantly, had the richest of collars to adorn his neck, and heard
himself praised continually. But his beauty rather brought him into
trouble, for the Queen, afraid lest he might grow too large for a pet,
took advice of dog doctors, who ordered that he should be fed entirely
upon bread, and that very sparingly, so poor Cherry was sometimes nearly
starved.
One day when they gave him his crust for breakfast, a fancy seized him
to go and eat it in the palace garden; so he took the bread in his mouth
and trotted away toward a stream which he knew, and where he sometimes
stopped to drink. But instead of the stream he saw a splendid palace
glittering with gold and precious stones. Entering the doors was a crowd
of men and women magnificently dressed, and within there was singing and
dancing and good cheer of all sorts. Yet, however grandly and gayly the
people went in, Cherry noticed that those who came out were pale, thin,
ragged, half-naked, covered with wounds and sores. Some of them dropped
dead at once; others dragged themselves on a little way and then lay
down, dying of hunger, and vainly begged a morsel of bread from others
who were entering in--who never took the least notice of them.
Cherry perceived one woman who was trying feebly to gather and eat some
green herbs. "Poor thing!" said he to himself; "I know what it is to be
hungry, and I want my breakfast badly enough; but still it will not kill
me to wait till dinner time, and my crust may save the life of this poor
woman."
So the little dog ran up to her and dropped his bread at her feet; she
picked it up and ate it with avidity. Soon she looked quite recovered,
and Cherry, delighted, was trotting back again to his kennel when he
heard loud cries, and saw a young girl dragged by four men to the door
of the palace, which they were trying to compel her to enter. Oh, how he
wished himself a monster again, as when he slew the tiger!--for the
young girl was no other than his beloved Zelia. Alas! what could a poor
little dog do to defend her? But he ran forward and barked at the men,
and bit their heels, until at last they chased him away with heavy
blows. And then he lay down outside the palace door, determined to watch
and see what had become of Zelia.
Conscience pricked him now. "What!" thought he, "I am furious against
these wicked men, who are carrying her away, and did I not do the same
myself? Did I not cast her into prison and intend to sell her as a
slave? Who knows how much more wickedness I might not have done to her
and others if Heaven's justice had not stopped me in time?"
While he lay thinking and repenting, he heard a window open, and saw
Zelia throw out of it a bit of dainty meat. Cherry, who felt hungry
enough by this time, was just about to eat it when the woman to whom he
had given his crust snatched him up in her arms.
"Poor little beast!" cried she, patting him, "every bit of food in that
palace is poisoned. You shall not touch a morsel."
At the same time the voice in the air repeated again, "Good actions
never go unrewarded"; and Cherry found himself changed into a beautiful
little white pigeon. He remembered with joy that white was the color of
the Fairy Candide, and began to hope that she was taking him into favor
again.
So he stretched his wings, delighted that he might now have a chance of
approaching his fair Zelia. He flew up to the palace windows, and,
finding one of them open, entered and sought everywhere, but he could
not find Zelia. Then, in despair, he flew out again, resolved to go over
the world until he beheld her once more.
He took flight at once, and traversed many countries, swiftly as a bird
can, but found no trace of his beloved. At length in a desert, sitting
beside an old hermit in his cave and partaking with him his frugal
repast, Cherry saw a poor peasant girl, and recognized Zelia.
Transported with joy he flew in, perched on her shoulder, and expressed
his delight and affection by a thousand caresses.
She, charmed with the pretty little pigeon, caressed it in her turn, and
promised it that, if it would stay with her, she would love it always.
"What have you done, Zelia?" said the hermit, smiling; and while he
spoke the white pigeon vanished, and there stood Prince Cherry in his
own natural form. "Your enchantment ended, Prince, when Zelia promised
to love you. Indeed, she has loved you always, but your many faults
constrained her to hide her love. These are now amended, and you may
both live happy if you will, because your union is founded upon mutual
esteem."
Cherry and Zelia threw themselves at the feet of the hermit, whose form
also began to change. His soiled garments became of dazzling whiteness,
and his long beard and withered face grew into the flowing hair and
lovely countenance of the Fairy Candide.
"Rise up, my children," said she; "I must now transport you to your
palace, and restore to Prince Cherry his father's crown, of which he is
now worthy."
She had scarcely ceased speaking when they found themselves in the
chamber of Suliman, who, delighted to find again his beloved pupil and
master, willingly resigned the throne, and became the most faithful of
his subjects.
King Cherry and Queen Zelia reigned together for many years, and it is
said that the former was so blameless and strict in all his duties that
though he constantly wore the ring which Candide had restored him, it
never once pricked his finger enough to make it bleed.
_The Wild Swans_
FAR away in the land to which the swallows fly when it is winter, dwelt
a king who had eleven sons, and one daughter named Eliza. The eleven
brothers were princes, and each went to school with a star on his breast
and a sword by his side. They wrote with diamond pencils on gold slates,
and learned their lessons so quickly and read so easily that everyone
might know they were princes. Their sister Eliza sat on a little stool
of plate glass, and had a book full of pictures which had cost as much
as half a kingdom. Oh, these children were indeed happy, but they were
not to remain so always. Their father, who was King of the country,
married a very wicked Queen who did not love the poor children at all.
They knew this from the very first day after the wedding. In the palace
there were great festivities, and the children played at receiving
company; but instead of having, as usual, all the cakes and apples that
were left, she gave them some sand in a teacup and told them to pretend
it was cake. The week after she sent little Eliza into the country to a
peasant and his wife, and then she told the King so many untrue things
about the young princes that he gave himself no more trouble respecting
them.
"Go out into the world and get your own living," said the Queen. "Fly
like great birds who have no voice." But she could not make them ugly as
she wished, for they were turned into eleven beautiful wild swans. Then,
with a strange cry, they flew through the windows of the palace, over
the park, to the forest beyond. It was yet early morning when they
passed the peasant's cottage, where their sister Eliza lay asleep in her
room. They hovered over the roof, twisted their long necks, and flapped
their wings; but no one heard them or saw them, so they were at last
obliged to fly away, high up in the clouds; and over the wide world they
flew till they came to a thick, dark wood, which stretched far away to
the seashore. Poor little Eliza was alone in her room playing with a
green leaf, for she had no other playthings, and she pierced a hole
through the leaf and looked through it at the sun, and it was as if she
saw her brothers' clear eyes, and when the warm sun shone on her cheeks
she thought of all the kisses they had given her. One day passed just
like another; sometimes the winds rustled through the leaves of the
rosebush, and would whisper to the roses, "Who can be more beautiful
than you?" But the roses would shake their heads and say, "Eliza is."
And when the old woman sat at the cottage door on Sunday and read her
hymn book, the wind would flutter the leaves and say to the book, "Who
can be more pious than you?" and then the hymn book would answer,
"Eliza." And the roses and the hymn book told the real truth. At fifteen
she returned home, but when the Queen saw how beautiful she was, she
became full of spite and hatred toward her. Willingly would she have
turned her into a swan, like her brothers, but she did not dare to do so
yet, because the King wished to see his daughter. Early one morning the
Queen went into the bathroom; it was built of marble, and had soft
cushions trimmed with the most beautiful tapestry. She took three toads
with her and kissed them, and said to one: "When Eliza comes to the
bath, seat yourself upon her head, that she may become as stupid as you
are." Then she said to another: "Place yourself on her forehead, that
she may become as ugly as you are, and that her father may not know
her." "Rest on her heart," she whispered to the third, "then she will
have evil inclinations, and suffer in consequence." So she put the toads
into clear water, and they turned green immediately. She next called
Eliza and helped her to undress and get into the bath. As Eliza dipped
her head under the water one of the toads sat on her hair, a second on
her forehead, and a third on her breast, but she did not seem to notice
them, and when she rose out of the water there were three red poppies
floating upon it. Had not the creatures been venomous or been kissed by
the witch they would have been changed into red roses. At all events
they became flowers, because they had rested on Eliza's head, and on her
heart. She was too good and too innocent for witchcraft to have any
power over her. When the wicked Queen saw this, she rubbed her face with
walnut juice, so that she was quite brown; then she tangled her
beautiful hair and smeared it with disgusting ointment, till it was
quite impossible to recognize the beautiful Eliza.
When her father saw her, he was much shocked and declared she was not
his daughter. No one but the watchdog and the swallows knew her, and
they were only dumb animals and could say nothing. Then poor Eliza wept,
and thought of her eleven brothers who were all away. Sorrowfully she
stole away from the palace, and walked the whole day over fields and
moors till she came to the great forest. She knew not in what direction
to go; but she was so unhappy and longed so for her brothers who had
been, like herself, driven out into the world, that she was determined
to seek them. She had been but a short time in the wood when night came
on, and she quite lost the path; so she laid herself down on the soft
moss, offered up her evening prayer, and leaned her head against the
stump of a tree. All nature was still, and the soft, mild air fanned her
forehead. The light of hundreds of glowworms shone amidst the grass and
the moss, like green fire; and if she touched a twig with her hand ever
so lightly, the brilliant fireflies fell down around her like shooting
stars.
All night long she dreamed of her brothers. She and they were children
again playing together. She saw them writing with their diamond pencils
on golden slates, while she looked at the beautiful picture book which
had cost half a kingdom. They were not writing lines and letters, as
they used to do, but descriptions of the noble deeds they had performed,
and of all they had discovered and seen. In the picture book, too,
everything was living. The birds sang, and the people came out of the
book and spoke to Eliza and her brothers; but, as the leaves turned over
they darted back again to their places, that all might be in order.
When she awoke the sun was high in the heavens, yet she could scarcely
see him, for the lofty trees spread their branches thickly over her
head, and his beams were glancing through the leaves here and there like
a golden mist. There was a sweet fragrance from the fresh verdure, and
the birds almost perched upon her shoulders. She heard water rippling
from a number of springs, all flowing into a lake with golden sands.
Bushes grew thickly around the lake, and at one spot an opening had been
made by a deer, through which Eliza went down to the water. The lake was
so clear that, had not the wind rustled the branches of the trees and
the bushes so that they moved, they would have appeared as if painted in
the depths of the lake, for every leaf was reflected in the water,
whether it stood in the shade or the sunshine. As soon as Eliza saw her
own face, she was quite terrified at finding it so brown and ugly; but
when she wetted her little hand and rubbed her eyes and forehead the
white skin gleamed forth once more; and, after she had undressed and
dipped herself in the fresh water, a more beautiful king's daughter
could not be found in the wide world. As soon as she had dressed herself
again, and braided her long hair, she went to the bubbling spring and
drank some water out of the hollow of her hand. Then she wandered far
into the forest, not knowing whither she went. She thought of her
brothers, and felt sure that God would not forsake her. It is God who
makes the wild apples grow in the wood to satisfy the hungry, and He now
led her to one of these trees, which was so loaded with fruit that the
boughs bent beneath its weight. Here she held her noonday repast,
placed props under the boughs, and then went into the gloomiest depths
of the forest. It was so still that she could hear the sound of her own
footsteps, as well as the rustling of every withered leaf which she
crushed under her feet. Not a bird was to be seen, not a sunbeam could
penetrate through the large dark boughs of the trees. The lofty trunks
stood so close together that when she looked before her it seemed as if
she were inclosed within trelliswork. Such solitude she had never known
before. The night was very dark. Not a single glowworm glittered in the
moss.
Sorrowfully she laid herself down to sleep, and after a while it seemed
to her as if the branches of the trees parted over her head, and that
the mild eyes of angels looked down upon her from heaven. When she awoke
in the morning, she knew not whether she had dreamed this or if it had
really been so. Then she continued her wandering, but she had not gone
many steps forward when she met an old woman with berries in her basket,
and begged a few to eat. Then Eliza asked her if she had seen eleven
princes riding through the forest.
"No," replied the old woman, "but I saw yesterday eleven swans, with
gold crowns on their heads, swimming on the river close by." Then she
led Eliza a little distance farther to a sloping bank, at the foot of
which wound a little stream. The trees on its banks stretched their long
leafy branches across the water toward each other, and where the growth
prevented them from meeting naturally, the roots had torn themselves
away from the ground, so that the branches might mingle their foliage as
they hung over the stream. Eliza bade the old woman farewell and walked
by the flowing river till she reached the shore of the open sea. And
there before the young maiden's eyes lay the glorious ocean, but not a
sail appeared on its surface; not even a boat could be seen. How was she
to go farther? She noticed how the countless pebbles on the seashore had
been smoothed and rounded by the action of the water. Glass, iron,
stones, everything that lay there mingled together, had taken its shape
from the same power, and felt as smooth, or even smoother, than her own
delicate hand. "The water rolls on without weariness," she said, "till
all that is hard becomes smooth; so will I be unwearied in my task.
Thanks for your lessons, bright rolling waves; my heart tells me you
will lead me to my dear brothers." On the foam-covered seaweeds lay
eleven white swan feathers, which she gathered up and placed together.
Drops of water lay upon them; whether they were dewdrops or tears no one
could say. Lonely as it was on the seashore she did not observe it, for
the ever-moving sea showed more changes in a few hours than the most
varying lake could produce during a whole year. If a black heavy cloud
arose, it was as if the sea said, "I can look dark and angry too"; and
then the wind blew, and the waves turned to white foam as they rolled.
When the wind slept and the clouds glowed with the red sunlight, then
the sea looked like a rose leaf. But however quietly its white glassy
surface rested, there was still a motion on the shore, as its waves rose
and fell like the breast of a sleeping child. When the sun was about to
set, Eliza saw eleven white swans with golden crowns on their heads
flying toward the land, one behind the other, like a long white ribbon.
Then Eliza went down the slope from the shore and hid herself behind the
bushes. The swans alighted quite close to her, and flapped their great
white wings. As soon as the sun had disappeared under the water, the
feathers of the swans fell off, and eleven beautiful princes, Eliza's
brothers, stood near her. She uttered a loud cry, for, although they
were very much changed, she knew them immediately. She sprang into their
arms and called them each by name. Then, how happy the princes were at
meeting their little sister again! for they recognized her, although she
had grown so tall and beautiful. They laughed and they wept, and very
soon understood how wickedly their mother had acted to them all. "We
brothers," said the eldest, "fly about as wild swans so long as the sun
is in the sky, but as soon as it sinks behind the hills, we recover our
human shape. Therefore must we always be near a resting place for our
feet before sunset; for if we should be flying toward the clouds at the
time we recovered our natural form as men, we should fall deep into the
sea. We do not dwell here, but in a land just as fair, that lies beyond
the ocean, which we have to cross for a long distance; there is no
island in our passage upon which we could pass the night; nothing but a
little rock rising out of the sea, upon which we can scarcely stand with
safety, even closely crowded together. If the sea is rough, the foam
dashes over us, yet we thank God even for this rock; we have passed
whole nights upon it, or we should never have reached our beloved
fatherland, for our flight across the sea occupies two of the longest
days in the year. We have permission to visit our home once in every
year and to remain eleven days, during which we fly across the forest to
look once more at the palace where our father dwells and where we were
born, and at the church where our mother lies buried. Here it seems as
if the very trees and bushes were related to us. The wild horses leap
over the plains as we have seen them in our childhood. The charcoal
burners sing the old songs to which we have danced as children. This is
our fatherland to which we are drawn by loving ties; and here we have
found you, our dear little sister. Two days longer we can remain here,
and then must we fly away to a beautiful land which is not our home; and
how can we take you with us? We have neither ship nor boat."
"How can I break this spell?" said their sister. And then she talked
about it nearly the whole night, only slumbering for a few hours. Eliza
was awakened by the rustling of the swans' wings as they soared above.
Her brothers were again changed to swans, and they flew in circles wider
and wider till they were far away; but one of them, the youngest swan,
remained behind and laid his head in his sister's lap, while she stroked
his wings, and they remained together the whole day. Toward evening the
rest came back, and as the sun went down they resumed their natural
forms. "To-morrow," said one, "we shall fly away, not to return again
till a whole year has passed. But we cannot leave you here. Have you
courage to go with us? My arm is strong enough to carry you through the
wood; and will not all our wings be strong enough to fly with you over
the sea?"
"Yes, take me with you," said Eliza. Then they spent the whole night in
weaving a net with the pliant willow and rushes. It was very large and
strong. Eliza laid herself down on the net, and when the sun rose and
her brothers again became wild swans, they took up the net with their
beaks and flew up to the clouds with their dear sister, who still slept.
The sunbeams fell on her face, therefore one of the swans soared over
her head, so that his broad wing might shade her. They were far from the
land when Eliza woke. She thought she must still be dreaming, it seemed
so strange to her to feel herself being carried so high in the air over
the sea. By her side lay a branch full of beautiful ripe berries and a
bundle of sweet roots; the youngest of her brothers had gathered them
for her, and placed them by her side. She smiled her thanks to him; she
knew it was the same who had hovered over her to shade her with his
wings. They were now so high that a large ship beneath them looked like
a white sea gull skimming the waves. A great cloud floating behind them
appeared like a vast mountain, and upon it Eliza saw her own shadow and
those of the eleven swans, looking gigantic in size. Altogether it
formed a more beautiful picture than she had ever seen; but as the sun
rose higher, and the clouds were left behind, the shadowy picture
vanished away. Onward the whole day they flew through the air like a
winged arrow, yet more slowly than usual, for they had their sister to
carry. The weather seemed inclined to be stormy, and Eliza watched the
sinking sun with great anxiety, for the little rock in the ocean was not
yet in sight. It appeared to her as if the swans were making great
efforts with their wings. Alas! she was the cause of their not advancing
more quickly. When the sun set they would change to men, fall into the
sea, and be drowned. Then she offered a prayer from her inmost heart,
but still no appearance of the rock. Dark clouds came nearer, the gusts
of wind told of a coming storm, while from a thick, heavy mass of clouds
the lightning burst forth flash after flash. The sun had reached the
edge of the sea, when the swans darted down so swiftly that Eliza's
head trembled; she believed they were falling, but they again soared
onward. Presently she caught sight of the rock just below them, and by
this time the sun was half hidden by the waves. The rock did not appear
larger than a seal's head thrust out of the water. They sank so rapidly
that at the moment their feet touched the rock the sun shone only like a
star, and at last disappeared like the last spark in a piece of burned
paper. Then she saw her brothers standing closely around her with their
arms linked together. There was but just room enough for them, and not
the smallest space to spare. The sea dashed against the rock and covered
them with spray. The heavens were lighted up with continual flashes, and
peal after peal of thunder rolled. But the sister and brothers sat
holding each other's hands and singing hymns, from which they gained
hope and courage. In the early dawn the air became calm and still, and
at sunrise the swans flew away from the rock with Eliza. The sea was
still rough, and from their high position in the air the white foam on
the dark green waves looked like millions of swans swimming on the
water. As the sun rose higher Eliza saw before her, floating in the air,
a range of mountains with shining masses of ice on their summits. In the
center rose a castle apparently a mile long, with rows of columns rising
one above another, while around it palm trees waved and flowers bloomed
as large as mill wheels. She asked if this was the land to which they
were hastening. The swans shook their heads, for what she beheld were
the beautiful ever-changing cloud palaces of the "Fata Morgana," into
which no mortal can enter. Eliza was still gazing at the scene when
mountains, forests, and castles melted away, and twenty stately churches
rose in their stead, with high towers and pointed Gothic windows. Eliza
even fancied she could hear the tones of the organ, but it was the music
of the murmuring sea which she heard. As they drew nearer to the
churches, these also changed into a fleet of ships, which seemed to be
sailing beneath her; but as she looked again, she found it was only a
sea mist gliding over the ocean. So there continued to pass before her
eyes a constant change of scene, till at last she saw the real land to
which they were bound, with its blue mountains, its cedar forests, and
its cities and palaces. Long before the sun went down she sat on a rock
in front of a large cave, on the floor of which the overgrown yet
delicate green creeping plants looked like an embroidered carpet. "Now
we shall expect to hear what you dream of to-night," said the youngest
brother, as he showed his sister her bedroom.
"Heaven grant that I may dream how to save you!" she replied. And this
thought took such hold upon her mind that she prayed earnestly to God
for help, and even in her sleep she continued to pray. Then it appeared
to her as if she were flying high in the air, toward the cloudy palace
of the "Fata Morgana," and a fairy came out to meet her, radiant and
beautiful in appearance, and yet very much like the old woman who had
given her berries in the wood, and who had told her of the swans with
golden crowns on their heads. "Your brothers can be released," said she,
"if you have only courage and perseverance. True, water is softer than
your own delicate hands, and yet it polishes stones into shapes; it
feels no pain as your fingers would feel, it has no soul, and cannot
suffer such agony and torment as you will have to endure. Do you see the
stinging nettle which I hold in my hand? Quantities of the same sort
grow around the cave in which you sleep, but none will be of any use to
you unless they grow upon the graves in a churchyard. These you must
gather even while they burn blisters on your hands. Break them to pieces
with your hands and feet, and they will become flax, from which you must
spin and weave eleven coats with long sleeves; if these are then thrown
over the eleven swans the spell will be broken. But remember, that from
the moment you commence your task until it is finished, even should it
occupy years of your life, you must not speak. The first word you utter
will pierce through the hearts of your brothers like a deadly dagger.
Their lives hang upon your tongue. Remember all I have told you." And as
she finished speaking, she touched her hand lightly with the nettle,
and a pain as of burning fire awoke Eliza.
It was broad daylight, and close by where she had been sleeping lay a
nettle like the one she had seen in her dream. She fell on her knees and
offered her thanks to God. Then she went forth from the cave to begin
her work with her delicate hands. She groped in among the ugly nettles,
which burned great blisters on her hands and arms, but she determined to
bear it gladly if she could only release her dear brothers. So she
bruised the nettles with her bare feet and spun the flax. At sunset her
brothers returned and were very much frightened when they found her
dumb. They believed it to be some new sorcery of their wicked
stepmother. But when they saw her hands they understood what she was
doing on their behalf, and the youngest brother wept, and where his
tears fell the pain ceased and the burning blisters vanished. She kept
at her work all night, for she could not rest till she had released her
dear brothers. During the whole of the following day, while her brothers
were absent, she sat in solitude, but never before had the time flown so
quickly. One coat was already finished and she had begun the second when
she heard a huntsman's horn and was struck with fear. The sound came
nearer and nearer; she heard the dogs barking, and fled with terror into
the cave. She hastily bound together the nettles she had gathered into a
bundle and sat upon them. Immediately a great dog came bounding toward
her out of the ravine, and then another and another; they barked loudly,
ran back, and then came again. In a very few minutes all the huntsmen
stood before the cave, and the handsomest of them was the King of the
country. He advanced toward her, for he had never seen a more beautiful
maiden.
"How did you come here, my sweet child?" he asked. But Eliza shook her
head. She dared not speak, at the cost of her brothers' lives. And she
hid her hands under her apron, so that the King might not see how she
must be suffering.
"Come with me," he said; "here you cannot remain. If you are as good as
you are beautiful, I will dress you in silk and velvet, I will place a
golden crown on your head, and you shall dwell and rule and make your
home in my richest castle." And then he lifted her on his horse. She
wept and wrung her hands, but the King said: "I wish only your
happiness. A time will come when you will thank me for this." And then
he galloped away over the mountains, holding her before him on his
horse, and the hunters followed behind them. As the sun went down they
approached a fair, royal city, with churches and cupolas. On arriving at
the castle the King led her into marble halls where large fountains
played, and where the walls and the ceilings were covered with rich
paintings. But she had no eyes for all these glorious sights; she could
only mourn and weep. Patiently she allowed the women to array her in
royal robes, to weave pearls in her hair, and draw soft gloves over her
blistered fingers. As she stood before them in all her rich dress, she
looked so dazzlingly beautiful that the court bowed low in her presence.
Then the King declared his intention of making her his bride, but the
archbishop shook his head, and whispered that the fair young maiden was
only a witch who had blinded the King's eyes and enchanted his heart.
But the King would not listen to this; he ordered the music to sound,
the daintiest dishes to be served, and the loveliest maidens to dance.
Afterwards he led her through fragrant gardens and lofty halls, but not
a smile appeared on her lips or sparkled in her eyes. She looked the
very picture of grief. Then the King opened the door of a little chamber
in which she was to sleep; it was adorned with rich green tapestry, and
resembled the cave in which he had found her. On the floor lay the
bundle of flax which she had spun from the nettles, and under the
ceiling hung the coat she had made. These things had been brought away
from the cave as curiosities by one of the huntsmen.
"Here you can dream yourself back again in the old home in the cave,"
said the King; "here is the work with which you employed yourself. It
will amuse you now in the midst of all this splendor to think of that
time."
When Eliza saw all these things which lay so near her heart, a smile
played around her mouth and the crimson blood rushed to her cheeks. She
thought of her brothers, and their release made her so joyful that she
kissed the King's hand. Then he pressed her to his heart. Very soon the
joyous church bells announced the marriage feast, and that the beautiful
dumb girl out of the wood was to be made Queen of the country. Then the
archbishop whispered wicked words in the King's ear, but they did not
sink into his heart. The marriage was still to take place, and the
archbishop himself had to place the crown on the bride's head; in his
wicked spite he pressed the narrow circlet so tightly on her forehead
that it caused her pain. But a heavier weight encircled her
heart--sorrow for her brothers. She felt not bodily pain. Her mouth was
closed; a single word would cost her brothers their lives. But she loved
the kind, handsome King, who did everything to make her happy, more and
more each day; she loved him with her whole heart, and her eyes beamed
with the love she dared not speak. Oh, if she had only been able to
confide in him and tell him of her grief! But dumb she must remain till
her task was finished. Therefore at night she crept away into her little
chamber, which had been decked out to look like the cave, and quickly
wove one coat after another. But when she began the seventh she found
she had no more flax. She knew that the nettles she wanted to use grew
in the churchyard, and that she must pluck them herself. How should she
get out there? "Oh, what is the pain in my fingers to the torment which
my heart endures?" said she. "I must venture; I shall not be denied help
from heaven." Then with a trembling heart, as if she were about to
perform a wicked deed, she crept into the garden in the broad moonlight,
and passed through the narrow walks and the deserted streets till she
reached the churchyard. Then she saw on one of the broad tombstones a
group of ghouls. These hideous creatures took off their rags, as if they
intended to bathe, and then, clawing open the grassy graves with their
long skinny fingers, pulled out the bones and threw them about! Eliza
had to pass close by them, and they fixed their wicked glances upon her,
but she prayed silently, gathered the burning nettles, and carried them
home with her to the castle. One person only had seen her, and that was
the archbishop--he was awake while everybody was asleep. Now he thought
his opinion was evidently correct. All was not right with the Queen. She
was a witch, and had enchanted the King and all the people. Secretly he
told the King what he had seen and what he feared, and as the hard words
came from his tongue, the carved images of the saints shook their heads
as if they would say, "It is not so. Eliza is innocent."
But the archbishop interpreted it in another way; he believed that they
witnessed against her, and were shaking their heads at her wickedness.
Two large tears rolled down the King's cheeks, and he went home with
doubt in his heart, and at night pretended to sleep, but there came no
real sleep to his eyes, for he saw Eliza get up every night and
disappear in her own chamber. From day to day his brow became darker,
and Eliza saw it and did not understand the reason, but it alarmed her
and made her heart tremble for her brothers. Her hot tears glittered
like pearls on the regal velvet and diamonds, while all who saw her were
wishing they could be queens. In the meantime she had almost finished
her task; only one coat of mail was wanting, but she had no flax left,
and not a single nettle. Once more only, and for the last time, must she
venture to the churchyard and pluck a few handfuls. She thought with
terror of the solitary walk, and of the horrible ghouls, but her will
was firm, as well as her trust in Providence. Eliza went, and the King
and the archbishop followed her. They saw her vanish through the wicket
gate into the churchyard, and when they came nearer they saw the ghouls
sitting on the tombstone as Eliza had seen them, and the King turned
away his head, for he thought she was with them--she whose head had
rested on his breast that very evening. "The people must condemn her,"
said he, and she was very quickly condemned by everyone to suffer death
by fire. Away from the gorgeous regal halls was she led to a dark,
dreary cell, where the wind whistled through the iron bars. Instead of
the velvet and silk dresses, they gave her the coats of mail which she
had woven to cover her, and the bundle of nettles for a pillow; but
nothing they could give her would have pleased her more. She continued
her task with joy, and prayed for help, while the street boys sang
jeering songs about her, and not a soul comforted her with a kind word.
Toward evening she heard at the grating the flutter of a swan's wing; it
was her youngest brother--he had found his sister, and she sobbed for
joy, although she knew that very likely this would be the last night she
would have to live. But still she could hope, for her task was almost
finished and her brothers were come. Then the archbishop arrived, to be
with her during her last hours, as he had promised the King. But she
shook her head, and begged him, by looks and gestures, not to stay, for
in this night she knew she must finish her task, otherwise all her pain
and tears and sleepless nights would have been suffered in vain. The
archbishop withdrew, uttering bitter words against her; but poor Eliza
knew that she was innocent, and diligently continued her work.
[Illustration: "ELIZA WENT, AND THE KING AND THE ARCHBISHOP FOLLOWED
HER"]
The little mice ran about the floor; they dragged the nettles to her
feet, to help as well as they could, and the thrush sat outside the
grating of the window and sang to her the whole night long, as sweetly
as possible, to keep up her spirits.
It was still twilight and at least an hour before sunrise when the
eleven brothers stood at the castle gate and demanded to be brought
before the King. They were told it could not be, it was yet almost
night, and as the King slept they dared not disturb him. They
threatened, they entreated. Then the guard appeared, and even the King
himself, inquiring what all the noise meant. At this moment the sun
rose. The eleven brothers were seen no more, but eleven wild swans flew
away over the castle.
And now all the people came streaming forth from the gates of the city
to see the witch burned. An old horse drew the cart on which she sat.
They had dressed her in a garment of coarse sackcloth. Her lovely hair
hung loose on her shoulders, her cheeks were deadly pale, her lips moved
silently, while her fingers still worked at the green flax. Even on the
way to death she would not give up her task. The ten coats of mail
lay at her feet, she was working hard at the eleventh, while the mob
jeered her and said, "See the witch, how she mutters! She has no hymn
book in her hand. She sits there with her ugly sorcery. Let us tear it
in a thousand pieces."
And then they pressed toward her, and would have destroyed the coats of
mail, but at the same moment eleven wild swans flew over her and
alighted on the cart. Then they flapped their large wings and the crowd
drew on one side in alarm.
"It is a sign from heaven that she is innocent," whispered many of them,
but they ventured not to say it aloud.
As the executioner seized her by the hand to lift her out of the cart,
she hastily threw the eleven coats of mail over the swans, and they
immediately became eleven handsome princes; but the youngest had a
swan's wing instead of an arm, for she had not been able to finish the
last sleeve of the coat.
"Now I may speak!" she exclaimed. "I am innocent."
Then the people, who saw what happened, bowed to her as before a saint,
but she sank lifeless in her brother's arms, overcome with suspense,
anguish, and pain.
"Yes, she is innocent," said the eldest brother; and then he related all
that had taken place, and while he spoke there rose in the air a
fragrance as from millions of flowers. Every piece of fagot in the pile
had taken root, and thrown out branches, and appeared a thick hedge,
large and high, covered with roses, while above all bloomed a white and
shining blossom that glittered like a star. This flower the King plucked
and placed in Eliza's bosom, when she awoke from her swoon with peace
and happiness in her heart. And all the church bells rang of themselves
and the birds came in great troops. And a marriage procession returned
to the castle such as no king had ever before seen.
_The Story of Coquerico_
ONCE upon a time there was a handsome hen who lived like a great lady in
the poultry yard of a rich farmer, surrounded by a numerous family that
clucked about her, and none of which clamored more loudly or picked up
the corn faster with his beak than a poor little deformed and crippled
chicken. This was precisely the one that the mother loved best. It is
the way with all mothers; the weakest and most unsightly are always
their favorites. This misshapen creature had but one eye, one wing, and
one leg in good condition; it might have been thought that Solomon had
executed his memorable sentence on Coquerico, for that was the name of
the wretched chicken, and cut him in two with his famous sword. When a
person is one-eyed, lame, and one-armed, he may reasonably be expected
to be modest; but our Castilian ragamuffin was prouder than his father,
the best spurred, most elegant, bravest, and most gallant cock to be
seen from Burgos to Madrid. He thought himself a phoenix of grace and
beauty, and passed the best part of the day in admiring himself in the
brook. If one of his brothers ran against him by accident, he abused
him, called him envious and jealous, and risked his only remaining eye
in battle; if the hens clucked on seeing him, he said it was to hide
their spite because he did not condescend to look at them.
One day, when he was more puffed up with vanity than usual, he resolved
no longer to remain in such a narrow sphere, but to go out into the
world, where he would be better appreciated.
"My lady mother," said he, "I am tired of Spain; I am going to Rome to
see the Pope and cardinals."
"What are you thinking of, my poor child!" cried his mother. "Who has
put such a folly into your head? Never has one of our family been known
to quit his country, and, for this reason, we are the honor of our race,
and are proud of our genealogy. Where will you find a poultry yard like
this--mulberry trees to shade you, a whitewashed hen roost, a
magnificent dunghill, worms and corn everywhere, brothers that love you,
and three great dogs to guard you from the foxes? Do you not think that
at Rome itself you will regret the ease and plenty of such a life?"
Coquerico shrugged his crippled wing in token of disdain. "You are a
simple woman, my good mother," said he; "everything is accounted worthy
of admiration by him who has never quitted his dunghill. But I have wit
enough to see that my brothers have no ideas, and that my cousins are
nothing but rustics. My genius is stifling in this hole; I wish to roam
the world and seek my fortune."
"But, my son, have you never looked in the brook?" resumed the poor hen.
"Don't you know that you lack an eye, a leg, and a wing? To make your
fortune, you need the eyes of a fox, the legs of a spider, and the wings
of a vulture. Once outside of these walls, you are lost."
"My good mother," replied Coquerico, "when a hen hatches a duck, she is
always frightened on seeing it run to the water. You know me no better.
It is my nature to succeed by my wit and talent. I must have a public
capable of appreciating the charms of my person; my place is not among
inferior people."
"My son," said the hen, seeing all her counsels useless, "my son, listen
at least to your mother's last words. If you go to Rome, take care to
avoid St. Peter's Church; the saint, it is said, dislikes cocks,
especially when they crow. Shun, moreover, certain personages called
cooks and scullions; you will know them by their paper caps, their
tucked-up sleeves, and the great knives which they wear at their sides.
They are licensed assassins, who track our steps without pity, and cut
our throats without giving us time to cry mercy. And now, my child," she
added, raising her claw, "receive my blessing. May St. James, the patron
saint of pilgrims, protect thee!"
Coquerico pretended not to see the tear that trembled in his mother's
eye, nor did he trouble himself any more about his father, who bristled
his plumage and seemed about to call him back. Without caring for those
whom he left behind, he glided through the half-open door, and, once
outside, flapped his only wing and crowed three times, to celebrate his
freedom--"Cock-a-doodle-doo!"
As he half-flew, half-hopped over the fields, he came to the bed of a
brook which had been dried up by the sun. In the middle of the sands,
however, still trickled a tiny thread of water, so small that it was
choked by a couple of dead leaves that had fallen into it.
"My friend," exclaimed the Streamlet at the sight of our traveler, "my
friend, you see my weakness; I have not even the strength to carry away
these leaves which obstruct my passage, much less to make a circuit, so
completely am I exhausted. With a stroke of your beak you can restore me
to life. I am not an ingrate; if you oblige me, you may count on my
gratitude the first rainy day, when the water from heaven shall have
restored my strength."
"You are jesting?" said Coquerico. "Do I look like one whose business it
is to sweep the brooks? Apply to those of your own sort." And, with his
sound leg, he leaped across the Streamlet.
"You will remember me when you least expect it," murmured the Brook, but
with so feeble a voice that it was lost on the proud cock.
A little farther on, Coquerico saw the Wind lying breathless on the
ground.
"Dear Coquerico, come to my aid," it cried; "here on earth we should
help each other. You see to what I am reduced by the heat of the day; I,
who in former times uprooted the olive trees and lashed the waves to
frenzy, lie here well nigh slain by the dog star. I suffered myself to
be lulled to sleep by the perfume of the roses with which I was playing;
and lo! here I am, stretched almost lifeless upon the ground. If you
will raise me a couple of inches with your beak and fan me a little with
your wing, I shall have the strength to mount to yonder white clouds
which I see in the distance, where I shall receive aid enough from my
family to keep me alive till I gain fresh strength from the next
whirlwind.
"My lord," answered the spiteful Coquerico, "your excellency has more
than once amused himself by playing tricks at my expense. It is not a
week since your lordship glided like a traitor behind me, and diverted
himself by opening my tail like a fan and covering me with confusion in
the face of nations. Have patience, therefore, my worthy friend; mockers
always have their turn; it does them good to repent, and to learn to
respect those whose birth, wit, and beauty should screen them from the
jests of a fool." And Coquerico, bristling his plumage, crowed three
times in his shrillest voice and proudly strutted onward.
A little farther on he came to a newly mown field, where the farmers had
piled up the weeds in order to burn them. Coquerico approached a smoking
heap, hoping to find some stray kernels of corn, and saw a little flame
which was charring the green stalks without being able to set them on
fire.
"My good friend," cried the Flame to the newcomer, "you are just in time
to save my life; I am dying for want of air. I cannot imagine what has
become of my cousin, the Wind, who cares for nothing but his own
amusement. Bring me a few dry straws to rekindle my strength, and you
will not have obliged an ingrate."
"Wait a moment," said Coquerico, "and I will serve you as you deserve,
insolent fellow that dares ask my help!" And behold! he leaped on the
heap of dried weeds, and trampled it down till he smothered both Flame
and smoke; after which he exultingly shouted three times
"Cock-a-doodle-doo!" and flapped his wings, as if he had done a great
deed.
Proudly strutting onward and crowing, Coquerico at last arrived at Rome,
the place to which all roads lead. Scarcely had he reached the city when
he hastened to the great church of St. Peter. Grand and beautiful as it
was, he did not stop to admire it, but, planting himself in front of the
main entrance, where he looked like a fly among the great columns, he
raised himself on tiptoe and began to shout "Cock-a-doodle-doo!" only to
enrage the saint and disobey his mother.
He had not yet ended his song when one of the Pope's guards, who chanced
to hear him, laid hands on the insolent wretch who dared thus to insult
the saint, and carried him home in order to roast him for supper.
"Quick!" said he to his wife on entering the house, "give me some
boiling water; here is a sinner to be punished."
"Pardon, pardon, Madam Water!" cried Coquerico. "O good and gentle
Water, the best and purest thing in the world, do not scald me, I pray
you!"
"Did you have pity on me when I implored your aid, ungrateful wretch?"
answered the Water, boiling with indignation. And with a single gush it
inundated him from head to foot, and left not a bit of down on his body.
The unhappy Coquerico stripped of all his feathers, the soldier took him
and laid him on the gridiron.
"O Fire, do not burn me!" cried he, in an agony of terror. "O beautiful
and brilliant Fire, the brother of the Sun and the cousin of the
Diamond, spare an unhappy creature; restrain thy ardor and soften thy
flame; do not roast me!"
"Did you have pity on me when I implored your aid, ungrateful wretch?"
answered the Fire, and, fiercely blazing with anger, in an instant it
burned Coquerico to a coal.
The soldier, seeing his roast chicken in this deplorable condition, took
him by the leg and threw him out of the window. The Wind bore the
unhappy fowl to a dunghill, where it left him for a moment.
"O Wind," murmured Coquerico, who still breathed, "oh, kindly zephyr,
protecting breeze, behold me cured of my vain follies; let me rest on
the paternal dunghill."
"Let you rest!" roared the Wind. "Wait and I will teach you how I treat
ingrates." And with one blast it sent him so high in the air that, as he
fell back, he was transfixed by a steeple.
There St. Peter was awaiting him. With his own hand he nailed him to the
highest steeple in Rome, where he is still shown to travelers. However
high placed he may be, all despise him because he turns with the
slightest wind; black, dried up, stripped of his feathers, and beaten by
the rain, he is no longer called Coquerico, but Weathercock; and thus
expiates, and must expiate eternally, his disobedience, vanity, and
wickedness.
_The Bird-Cage Maker_
IN a town of the ancient kingdom of Castile there lived, in former ages,
a youth called Bartolo, who tried to eke out a living by making cages
for birds, and taking them round to sell at the neighboring villages.
But his trade was a poor one, and he judged himself in luck if he sold
one cage in the day, and as may be supposed, he knew what sorrow and
privation were.
One day as he was proceeding to a village he heard sounds of revelry,
the buzz of many people, and the strains of a band of music. This
merrymaking was a procession of children dressed in white, carrying in
their midst a beautiful child crowned with roses, in a chariot covered
with white satin, and ornamented with acacia and myrtle. This procession
was in honor of Maya, the personification of Spring, and took place to
announce the entry of Spring. In front of the little chariot some
children danced, and held in their hands tin platters for contributions;
and, as may be imagined, all, or nearly all, the spectators dropped
their coins into them.
Bartolo moved away in a desponding mood, saying to himself as he walked
on: "Is this the justice of the world? There they are, flinging their
money into these platters just because these children come in
procession to announce to them that it is the month of May, as though
they could not know it by looking in an almanac. They barter and grind
me down to the lowest price for my cages, even when I chance to sell
one."
Full of these bitter thoughts he walked on sadly, for the voices of two
importunate enemies were making themselves heard within him--these were
hunger and thirst: the one clamored for food and the other for drink.
Bartolo had nothing in his wallet but his clasp knife, and had had
nought for his breakfast but hopes, and these made him sharp and active.
He had reached a plantation when he perceived a well-dressed individual
coming toward him. Pressed by hunger Bartolo, taking his cap off
respectfully, approached and said: "Excuse me, sir, but could you kindly
give me a trifle? I promise I will return it as soon as I earn some
money."
"Don't you think that it is a shameful thing for a man like you, young
and with a good, healthy appearance, to be demanding charity of people?
Does it not strike you that you have a duty to earn your living by
working at your trade?"
"Yes, sir, certainly, but my trade does not fulfill its own duty. Most
people like to see the birds flying about free rather than in cages,
and, therefore, day by day I find myself poorer than before."
At first the stranger doubted what he heard, but the bird-cage maker
gave him so detailed an account of his work and the small profits he
derived, that he became interested and sympathized with his ill fortune.
Bartolo was a man who always knew how to excite great interest in
himself.
"Come, come," the stranger said, smiling, "I will do something for you.
As I cannot find customers for your cages, I will afford you a powerful
means by which you shall never more be in want."
He then blew a whistle, and Bartolo saw flying before him a bird blue
as the sky, which came and perched on one of his cages.
"See here," added the stranger, "what will compensate for all your past
misery. From this day forward you have only to formulate a wish and say
slowly and distinctly, _'Bluest of blue birds, do your duty!'_ and your
wish will be granted to you."
"By my faith!" cried the bird-cage maker, "but I will try it at once.
For the last twenty years I have wished to kill hunger: 'Bluest of blue
birds, do your duty!'"
Scarcely were the words out of his mouth than he saw suddenly spread
before him on the grass a breakfast fit for a prince, laid on a service
of exquisite silver and glass and the whitest of cloths. Bartolo,
astonished, flung himself on his knees before his benefactor to thank
him, but he raised him up saying:
"I am the good genius of the honest workingmen of Castile. Sit down and
eat without fear. Take advantage of your lucky star," and then suddenly
disappeared.
Bartolo reverently bent down and kissed the spot upon which he had
stood, unable to find adequate expression of his gratitude. He then sat
down and ate his breakfast. After his meal, Bartolo judged that a man
who had feasted in such an elegant manner ought to have other, better
clothing than his well-worn working suit; and, lifting his staff, he
cried to the bird: "Bluest of blue birds, do your duty!" In an instant
his old suit became transformed into one of richest velvet, embroidered
in gold and silver, and his rough staff into a splendid horse fully
caparisoned, and having round its neck a collar of silver bells.
More astonished than ever, Bartolo suspended to the saddle the cage with
the blue bird, leaped on the horse, and went his way, as proud of his
dress as a donkey of its ears.
Setting spurs to his horse, he soon reached the gates of a splendid
castle. Some feast was taking place within. The guests were all seated
under a shady bower, deploring that they had been disappointed of the
minstrels who were to have played.
Bartolo, on learning this, advanced to the bower, and, after elegantly
saluting the lord and lady of the castle, in a most refined voice said:
"If it be right for a simple knight to offer his services to such a
distinguished company of rank and beauty, I think I could promise to
provide what you are requiring."
"Oh, do! at once, please!" cried all the ladies, who were longing to
dance.
"Bluest of blue birds, do your duty!" said Bartolo.
Suddenly, in the distance, was heard the noise of many feet, and a troop
of musicians with their instruments appeared, to the great delight of
the company.
The lord of the castle thanked the stranger, and desired him to open the
ball with his eldest daughter, a maiden fair and lovely, like a
snowbird.
When the ball was at its height, the bird-cage maker ordered an elegant
banquet to be served, during which the bluest of blue birds was
commanded to sing some songs, which were very much admired. Games of
chance followed, and Bartolo, taking advantage of his good fortune,
distributed among the ladies pearls, bracelets, and rings of precious
stones. All those present were surprised beyond measure, because the
lord of the castle was known to be extremely niggardly and mean.
The lord of the castle, who knew how all this had been done through the
agency of the bird, and being himself of an inordinately avaricious
nature, thought he might do a fine stroke of business were he to buy the
creature. Hence, calling his unknown guest away to his study, he
proposed to him to purchase the bird for what price he should quote.
"You would never give me my price," replied Bartolo.
"For it I would give my castle with its nine forests," said the lord of
the castle.
"It is not enough!"
"Very well, I will add my olive plantations and vineyards."
"That is still insufficient!" cried Bartolo.
"I will add the orchards, gardens, and houses."
"I want something else!"
"What, still more? Why, man, you must want paradise itself!"
"Not so; I want what you can give me this very moment. I want your
daughter with whom I danced just now! Let her be my bride."
"What, my daughter!" cried the old miser, in an ecstasy of joy; "by my
faith, we shall soon conclude the bargain. Why did you not say so
before?"
He went to seek the girl, and told her of the engagement he had entered
into. But his daughter, in utter amazement, cried out:
"But what if he be a wicked elf, and all he does be witchcraft?"
"You have an amulet of coral hanging from your neck; it is an antidote
against all witchery."
"And what if he be Satan himself?"
"I will give you a piece of blessed candle, and he will have no power
over you," replied the unrelenting father.
Taking her hand, he led her to the stranger, who was already on his
horse, and assisted her to mount behind her future husband. Taking the
cage with the bluest of birds, he watched the retreating forms of the
pair as the horse carried them away swifter than the wind, and when out
of sight, he proceeded to join his guests. The company were all gathered
in knots discussing the extraordinary powers of the bird and all the
events which had taken place.
"Peace! peace!" cried the lord of the castle, as he entered; "I will
perform more marvelous things than ever he did. I have given him my
daughter to wed in exchange for the bird, and this blue bird will render
me more wealthy than the King of Aragon. Approach, and see the wonders I
will work with it."
He took the cage, and lifting it up to look at the bird, was astonished
to find that it was not blue at all, but a large gray bird, which
turned to stare at him in an insolent manner, gave a fierce peck at the
door of the cage with its beak, flung it open, and flew out of the
window uttering a terrible screech.
The lord of the castle stood with open mouth, not knowing what to do or
say. His guests broke out in peals of laughter at his discomfiture and
the well-deserved punishment for his unseemly avarice in exchanging his
beautiful daughter for a worthless bird.
Meanwhile, Bartolo was galloping on with his bride to the nearest town
to be married, and when he arrived at the first hostelry, he wished to
dismount and engage the most splendid suite of apartments for his
intended wife, but he found himself utterly penniless. He had not
calculated that in parting with the bird he had parted with his luck,
and therefore as soon as he dismounted the horse disappeared and his
elegant dress became changed for the shabby one he had worn before he
met the kind individual who had wished to befriend him. When the
beautiful daughter of the lord of the castle beheld the transformation
which had taken place she ran back to her father as fast as she could,
fright lending wings to her feet.
Bartolo had to return to his old life of making cages and to his
miserable existence.
_The Twelve Months_
THERE was once a woman who was left a widow with two children. The
elder, who was only her stepdaughter, was named Dobrunka; the younger,
who was as wicked as her mother, was called Katinka. The mother
worshiped her daughter, but she hated Dobrunka, simply because she was
as beautiful as her sister was ugly. Dobrunka did not even know that she
was pretty, and she could not understand why her stepmother flew into a
rage at the mere sight of her. The poor child was obliged to do all the
work of the house; she had to sweep, cook, wash, sew, spin, weave, cut
the grass, and take care of the cow, while Katinka lived like a
princess, that is to say, did nothing.
Dobrunka worked with a good will, and took reproaches and blows with the
gentleness of a lamb; but nothing soothed her stepmother, for every day
added to the beauty of the elder sister and the ugliness of the younger.
"They are growing up," thought the mother, "and suitors will soon appear
who will refuse my daughter when they see this hateful Dobrunka, who
grows beautiful on purpose to spite me. I must get rid of her, cost what
it may."
One day in the middle of January, Katinka took a fancy for some violets.
She called Dobrunka and said: "Go to the forest and bring me a bunch of
violets, that I may put them in my bosom and enjoy their fragrance."
"Oh, sister, what an idea!" answered Dobrunka; "as if there were any
violets under the snow!"
"Hold your tongue, stupid lass," returned her sister, "and do as I bid
you. If you do not go to the forest and bring me back a bunch of
violets, I will beat you to a jelly." Upon this the mother took Dobrunka
by the arm, put her out of the door, and drew the bolt on her.
The poor girl went to the forest weeping bitterly. Every thing was
covered with snow; there was not even a footpath. She lost her way, and
wandered about till, famishing with hunger and perishing with cold, she
entreated God to take her from this wretched life.
All at once she saw a light in the distance. She went on, climbing
higher and higher, until at last she reached the top of a huge rock,
upon which a great fire was built. Around the fire were twelve stones,
and on each stone sat a motionless figure, wrapped in a large mantle,
his head covered with a hood which fell over his eyes. Three of these
mantles were white like the snow, three were green like the grass of the
meadows, three were golden like the sheaves of ripe wheat, and three
were purple like the grapes of the vine. These twelve figures, gazing
at the fire in silence, were the Twelve Months of the year.
[Illustration: "MARCH ROSE IN TURN, AND STIRRED THE FIRE WITH THE STAFF,
WHEN, BEHOLD! . . . IT WAS SPRING"]
Dobrunka knew January by his long white beard. He was the only one that
had a staff in his hand. The poor girl was terribly frightened. She drew
near, saying, in a timid voice: "My good sirs, please let me warm myself
by your fire; I am freezing with cold."
January nodded his head. "Why have you come here, my child?" he asked.
"What are you looking for?"
"I am looking for violets," replied Dobrunka.
"This is not the season for them; there are no violets in the time of
snow," said January, in his gruff voice.
"I know it," replied Dobrunka sadly; "but my sister and mother will beat
me to a jelly if I do not bring them some. My good sirs, please tell me
where I can find them."
Old January rose, and, turning to a young man in a green mantle, put his
staff in his hand, and said to him, "Brother March, this is your
business."
March rose in turn, and stirred the fire with the staff, when behold!
the flames rose, the snow melted, the buds put forth on the trees, the
grass turned green under the bushes, the flowers peeped through the
verdure, and the violets opened--it was spring.
"Make haste, my child, and gather your violets," said March.
Dobrunka gathered a large bouquet, thanked the Twelve Months, and
joyfully ran home. You can imagine the astonishment of Katinka and the
stepmother. The fragrance of the violets filled the whole house.
"Where did you find these fine things?" asked Katinka, in a disdainful
voice.
"Up yonder on the mountain," answered her sister. "It looked like a
great blue carpet under the bushes."
Katinka put the bouquet in her bosom, and did not even thank the poor
child.
The next morning the wicked sister, as she sat idling by the stove, took
a fancy for some strawberries.
"Go to the forest and bring me some strawberries," said she to Dobrunka.
"Oh, sister, what an idea! as if there were any strawberries under the
snow!"
"Hold your tongue, stupid lass, and do as I bid you. If you don't go to
the forest and bring me back a basket of strawberries, I will beat you
to a jelly."
The mother took Dobrunka by the arm, put her out of the door, and drew
the bolt on her.
The poor girl returned to the forest, looking with all her eyes for the
light that she had seen the day before. She was fortunate enough to spy
it, and she reached the fire trembling and almost frozen.
The Twelve Months were in their places, motionless and silent.
"My good sirs," said Dobrunka, "please let me warm myself by your fire;
I am almost frozen with cold."
"Why have you returned?" asked January. "What are you looking for?"
"I am looking for strawberries," answered she.
"This is not the season for them," returned January, in his gruff voice;
"there are no strawberries under the snow."
"I know it," replied Dobrunka sadly; "but my mother and sister will beat
me to a jelly if I do not bring them some. My good sirs, please tell me
where I can find them."
Old January rose, and, turning to a man in a golden mantle, he put his
staff in his hand, saying, "Brother June, this is your business."
June rose in turn and stirred the fire with the staff, when behold! the
flames rose, the snow melted, the earth grew green, the trees were
covered with leaves, the birds sang, and the flowers opened--it was
summer. Thousands of little white stars enameled the turf, then turned
to red strawberries, looking, in their green cups, like rubies set in
emeralds.
"Make haste, my child, and gather your strawberries," said June.
Dobrunka filled her apron, thanked the Twelve Months, and joyfully ran
home. You may imagine the astonishment of Katinka and the stepmother.
The fragrance of the strawberries filled the whole house.
"Where did you find these fine things?" asked Katinka, in a disdainful
voice.
"Up yonder on the mountain," answered her sister; "there were so many of
them that they looked like blood poured on the ground."
Katinka and her mother devoured the strawberries without even thanking
the poor child.
The third day the wicked sister took a fancy for some red apples. The
same threats, the same insults, and the same violence followed. Dobrunka
ran to the mountain, and was fortunate enough to find the Twelve Months
warming themselves, motionless and silent.
"You here again, my child?" said old January, making room for her by the
fire. Dobrunka told him, with tears, how, if she did not bring home some
red apples, her mother and sister would beat her to death.
Old January repeated the ceremonies of the day before. "Brother
September," said he to a gray-bearded man in a purple mantle, "this is
your business."
September rose and stirred the fire with the staff, when behold! the
flames ascended, the snow melted, and the trees put forth a few yellow
leaves, which fell one by one before the wind--it was autumn. The only
flowers were a few late pinks, daisies, and immortelles. Dobrunka saw
but one thing, an apple tree with its rosy fruit.
"Make haste, my child; shake the tree," said September.
She shook it, and an apple fell; she shook it again, and a second apple
followed.
"Make haste, Dobrunka, make haste home!" cried September, in an
imperious voice.
The good child thanked the Twelve Months, and joyfully ran home. You may
imagine the astonishment of Katinka and the stepmother.
"Fresh-plucked apples in January! Where did you get these apples?" asked
Katinka.
"Up yonder on the mountain; there is a tree there that is as red with
them as a cherry tree in July."
"Why did you bring only two? You ate the rest on the way."
"Oh, sister, I did not touch them; I was only permitted to shake the
tree twice, and but two apples fell."
"Begone, you wretch!" cried Katinka, striking her sister, who ran away
crying.
The wicked girl tasted one of the apples; she had never eaten anything
so delicious in her life, neither had her mother. How they regretted not
having any more!
"Mother," said Katinka, "give me my fur cloak. I will go to the forest
and find the tree, and, whether I am permitted or not, I will shake it
so hard that all the apples will be ours."
The mother tried to stop her. A spoiled child listens to nothing.
Katinka wrapped herself in her fur cloak, drew the hood over her head,
and hastened to the forest.
Everything was covered with snow; there was not even a footpath. Katinka
lost her way, but she pushed on, spurred by pride and covetousness. She
spied a light in the distance. She climbed and climbed till she reached
the place, and found the Twelve Months each seated on his stone,
motionless and silent. Without asking their permission, she approached
the fire.
"Why have you come here? What do you want? Where are you going?" asked
old January gruffly.
"What matters it to you, old fool?" answered Katinka. "It is none of
your business where I came from or whither I am going." She plunged into
the forest. January frowned, and raised his staff above his head. In the
twinkling of an eye the sky was overcast, the fire went out, the snow
fell, and the wind blew. Katinka could not see the way before her. She
lost herself, and vainly tried to retrace her steps. The snow fell and
the wind blew. She called her mother, she called her sister, she prayed
to God. The snow fell and the wind blew. Katinka froze, her limbs
stiffened, and she fell motionless. The snow still fell and the wind
still blew.
The mother went without ceasing from the window to the door, and from
the door to the window. The hours passed, and Katinka did not return.
"I must go and look for my daughter," said she. "The child has forgotten
herself with those hateful apples." She took her fur cloak and hood, and
hastened to the mountain. Everything was covered with snow; there was
not even a footpath. She plunged into the forest, calling her daughter.
The snow fell and the wind blew. She walked on with feverish anxiety,
shouting at the top of her voice. The snow still fell and the wind still
blew.
Dobrunka waited through the evening and the night, but no one returned.
In the morning she took her wheel and spun a whole distaff full; there
was still no news. "What can have happened?" said the good girl,
weeping. The sun was shining through an icy mist, and the ground was
covered with snow. Dobrunka prayed for her mother and sister. They did
not return; and it was not till spring that a shepherd found the two
bodies in the forest.
Dobrunka remained the sole mistress of the house, the cow, and the
garden, to say nothing of a piece of meadow adjoining the house. But
when a good and pretty girl has a field under her window, the next thing
that follows is a young farmer, who offers her his heart and hand.
Dobrunka was soon married. The Twelve Months did not abandon their
child. More than once, when the north wind blew fearfully and the
windows shook in their frames, old January stopped up all the crevices
of the house with snow, so that the cold might not enter this peaceful
abode.
Dobrunka lived to a good old age, always virtuous and happy, having,
according to the proverb, winter at the door, summer in the barn, autumn
in the cellar, and spring in the heart.
_The Bee, the Harp, the Mouse, and the Bum-Clock_
ONCE there was a widow, and she had one son, called Jack. Jack and his
mother owned just three cows. They lived well and happy for a long time;
but at last hard times came down on them, and the crops failed, and
poverty looked in at the door, and things got so sore against the poor
widow that for want of money and for want of necessities she had to make
up her mind to sell one of the cows. "Jack," she said one night, "go
over in the morning to the fair to sell the branny cow."
Well and good: in the morning my brave Jack was up early, and took a
stick in his fist and turned out the cow, and off to the fair he went
with her; and when Jack came into the fair, he saw a great crowd
gathered in a ring in the street. He went into the crowd to see what
they were looking at, and there in the middle of them he saw a man with
a wee, wee harp, a mouse, and a bum-clock,[A] and a bee to play the
harp. And when the man put them down on the ground and whistled, the bee
began to play the harp, and the mouse and the bum-clock stood up on
their hind legs and took hold of each other and began to waltz. And as
soon as the harp began to play and the mouse and the bum-clock to dance,
there wasn't a man or woman, or a thing in the fair that didn't begin to
dance also; and the pots and pans, and the wheels and reels jumped and
jigged all over the town, and Jack himself and the branny cow were as
bad as the next.
There was never a town in such a state before or since, and after a
while the man picked up the bee, the harp, and the mouse, and the
bum-clock and put them into his pocket, and the men and women, Jack and
the cow, the pots and pans, wheels and reels that had hopped and jigged
now stopped, and everyone began to laugh as if to break its heart. Then
the man turned to Jack. "Jack," says he, "how would you like to be
master of all these animals?"
"Why," says Jack, "I should like it fine."
"Well, then," says the man, "how will you and me make a bargain about
them?"
"I have no money," says Jack.
"But you have a fine cow," says the man. "I will give you the bee and
the harp for it."
"Oh, but," Jack says, says he, "my poor mother at home is very sad and
sorrowful entirely, and I have this cow to sell and lift her heart
again."
"And better than this she cannot get," says the man. "For when she sees
the bee play the harp, she will laugh if she never laughed in her life
before."
"Well," says Jack, says he, "that will be grand."
He made the bargain. The man took the cow; and Jack started home with
the bee and the harp in his pocket, and when he came home his mother
welcomed him back.
"And Jack," says she, "I see you have sold the cow."
"I have done that," says Jack.
"Did you do well?" says the mother.
"I did well, and very well," says Jack.
"How much did you get for her?" says the mother.
"Oh," says he, "it was not for money at all I sold her, but for
something far better."
"O, Jack! Jack!" says she, "what have you done?"
"Just wait until you see, mother," says he, "and you will soon say I
have done well."
Out of his pocket he takes the bee and the harp and sets them in the
middle of the floor, and whistles to them, and as soon as he did this
the bee began to play the harp, and the mother she looked at them and
let a big, great laugh out of her, and she and Jack began to dance, the
pots and pans, the wheels and reels began to jig and dance over the
floor, and the house itself hopped about also.
When Jack picked up the bee and the harp again the dancing all stopped,
and the mother laughed for a long time. But when she came to herself she
got very angry entirely with Jack, and she told him he was a silly,
foolish fellow, that there was neither food nor money in the house, and
now he had lost one of her good cows also. "We must do something to
live," says she. "Over to the fair you must go to-morrow morning, and
take the black cow with you and sell her."
And off in the morning at an early hour brave Jack started, and never
halted until he was in the fair. When he came into the fair he saw a big
crowd gathered in a ring in the street. Said Jack to himself, "I wonder
what they are looking at."
Into the crowd he pushed, and saw the wee man this day again with a
mouse and a bum-clock, and he put them down in the street and whistled.
The mouse and the bum-clock stood up on their hind legs and got hold of
each other and began to dance there and jig, and as they did there was
not a man or woman in the street who didn't begin to jig also, and Jack
and the black cow, and the wheels and the reels, and the pots and pans,
all of them were jigging and dancing all over the town, and the houses
themselves were jumping and hopping about, and such a place Jack or
anyone else never saw before.
When the man lifted the mouse and the bum-clock into his pocket they all
stopped dancing and settled down, and everybody laughed right hearty.
The man turned to Jack. "Jack," says he, "I am glad to see you; how
would you like to have these animals?"
"I should like well to have them," says Jack, says he, "only I cannot."
"Why cannot you?" says the man.
"Oh!" says Jack, says he, "I have no money, and my poor mother is very
downhearted. She sent me to the fair to sell this cow and bring some
money to lift her heart."
"Oh!" says the man, says he, "if you want to lift your mother's heart I
will sell you the mouse, and when you set the bee to play the harp and
the mouse to dance to it, your mother will laugh if she never laughed in
her life before."
"But I have no money," says Jack, says he, "to buy your mouse."
"I don't mind," says the man, says he, "I will take your cow for it."
Poor Jack was so taken with the mouse, and had his mind so set on it,
that he thought it was a grand bargain entirely, and he gave the man his
cow and took the mouse and started off for home; and when he got home
his mother welcomed him.
"Jack," says she, "I see you have sold the cow."
"I did that," says Jack.
"Did you sell her well?" says she.
"Very well indeed," says Jack, says he.
"How much did you get for her?"
"I didn't get money," says he, "but I got value."
"O Jack! Jack!" says she, "what do you mean?"
"I will soon show you that, mother," says he, taking the mouse out of
his pocket and the harp and the bee, and setting all on the floor; and
when he began to whistle, the bee began to play, and the mouse got up on
its hind legs and began to dance and jig, and the mother gave such a
hearty laugh as she never laughed in her life before. To dancing and
jigging herself and Jack fell, and the pots and pans and the wheels and
reels began to dance and jig over the floor, and the house jigged also.
And when they were tired of this, Jack lifted the harp and the mouse and
the bee and put them in his pocket, and his mother she laughed for a
long time.
But when she got over that she got very downhearted and very angry
entirely with Jack. "And oh, Jack!" she says, "you are a stupid,
good-for-nothing fellow. We have neither money nor meat in the house,
and here you have lost two of my good cows, and I have only one left
now. To-morrow morning," she says, "you must be up early and take this
cow to the fair and sell her. See you get something to lift my heart
up."
"I will do that," says Jack, says he. So he went to his bed, and early
in the morning he was up and turned out the spotty cow and went to the
fair.
When Jack got to the fair he saw a crowd gathered in a ring in the
street. "I wonder what they are looking at, anyhow," says he. He pushed
through the crowd, and there he saw the same wee man he had seen before,
with a bum-clock; and when he put the bum-clock on the ground he
whistled, and the bum-clock began to dance; and the men, women, and
children in the street, and Jack and the spotty cow began to dance and
jig also, and everything on the street and about it--the wheels and
reels, the pots and pans began to jig, and the houses themselves began
to dance likewise. And when the man lifted the bum-clock and put it in
his pocket everybody stopped jigging and dancing and everyone laughed
aloud. The wee man turned and saw Jack.
"Jack, my brave boy," says he, "you will never be right fixed until you
have this bum-clock, for it is a very fancy thing to have."
"Oh! but," says Jack, says he, "I have no money."
"No matter for that," says the man; "you have a cow, and that is as good
as money to me."
"Well," says Jack, "I have a poor mother who is very downhearted at
home, and she sent me to the fair to sell this cow and raise some money
and lift her heart."
"Oh! but Jack," says the wee man, "this bum-clock is the very thing to
lift her heart, for when you put down your harp and bee and mouse on the
floor, and put the bum-clock along with them she will laugh if she never
laughed in her life before."
"Well, that is surely true," says Jack, says he, "and I think I will
make a swap with you."
So Jack gave the cow to the man and took the bum-clock himself, and
started for home. His mother was glad to see Jack back, and says she,
"Jack, I see that you have sold the cow."
"I did that, mother," says Jack.
"Did you sell her well, Jack?" says the mother.
"Very well indeed, mother," says Jack.
"How much did you get for her?" says the mother.
"I didn't take any money for her, mother, but value," says Jack, and he
takes out of his pocket the bum-clock and the mouse, and set them on the
floor and began to whistle, and the bee began to play the harp and the
mouse and the bum-clock stood up on their hind legs and began to dance,
and Jack's mother laughed very hearty, and everything in the house--the
wheels and the reels and the pots and pans went jigging and hopping over
the floor, and the house itself went jigging and hopping about likewise.
When Jack lifted up the animals and put them in his pocket everything
stopped, and the mother laughed for a good while. But after a while,
when she came to herself and saw what Jack had done and how they were
now without either money, or food, or a cow, she got very, very angry at
Jack and scolded him hard, and then sat down and began to cry.
Poor Jack, when he looked at himself, confessed that he was a stupid
fool entirely. "And what," says he, "shall I now do for my poor mother?"
He went out along the road, thinking and thinking, and he met a wee
woman who said: "Good morrow to you, Jack," says she, "how is it you are
not trying for the King's daughter of Ireland?"
"What do you mean?" says Jack.
Says she: "Didn't you hear what the whole world has heard, that the King
of Ireland has a daughter who hasn't laughed for seven years, and he has
promised to give her in marriage and to give the kingdom along with her
to any man who will take three laughs out of her."
"If that is so," says Jack, says he, "it is not here I should be."
Back to the house he went and gathers together the bee, the harp, the
mouse, and the bum-clock, and putting them into his pocket he bade his
mother good-by, and told her it wouldn't be long till she got good news
from him, and off he hurries.
When he reached the castle there was a ring of spikes all around the
castle and men's heads on nearly every spike there.
"What heads are these?" Jack asked one of the King's soldiers.
"Any man that comes here trying to win the King's daughter and fails to
make her laugh three times loses his head and has it stuck on a spike.
These are the heads of the men that failed," says he.
"A mighty big crowd," says Jack, says he. Then Jack sent word to tell
the King's daughter and the King that there was a new man who had come
to win her.
In a very little time the King and the King's daughter and the King's
court all came out and sat themselves down on gold-and-silver chairs in
front of the castle, and ordered Jack to be brought in until he should
have his trial. Jack, before he went, took out of his pocket the bee,
the harp, the mouse, and the bum-clock, and he gave the harp to the bee,
and he tied a string to one and the other, and took the end of the
string himself, and marched into the castle yard before all the court,
with his animals coming on a string behind him.
When the Queen and the King and the court and the princes saw poor
ragged Jack with his bee and mouse and bum-clock hopping behind him on a
string they set up one roar of laughter that was long and loud enough,
and when the King's daughter herself lifted her head and looked to see
what they were laughing at, and saw Jack and his paraphernalia, she
opened her mouth and she gave such a laugh as was never heard before.
Then Jack dropped a low courtesy and said: "Thank you, my lady; I have
one of the three parts of you won."
Then he drew up his animals in a circle and began to whistle, and the
minute he did the bee began to play the harp, and the mouse and the
bum-clock stood up on their hind legs, got hold of each other, and began
to dance, and the King and the King's court and Jack himself began to
dance and jig, and everything about the King's castle--pots and pans,
wheels and reels, and the castle itself began to dance also. And the
King's daughter, when she saw this, opened her mouth again and gave a
laugh twice louder than she did before, and Jack, in the middle of his
jigging, drops another courtesy, and says: "Thank you, my lady; that is
two of the three parts of you won."
Jack and his menagerie went on playing and dancing, but Jack could not
get the third laugh out of the King's daughter, and the poor fellow saw
his big head in danger of going on the spike. Then the brave mouse came
to Jack's help and wheeled round upon its heel, and as it did so its
tail swept into the bum-clock's mouth, and the bum-clock began to cough
and cough and cough. And when the King's daughter saw this she opened
her mouth again, and she laughed the loudest and hardest and merriest
laugh that was ever heard before or since; and, "Thank you, my lady,"
says Jack, dropping another courtesy; "I have all of you won."
Then when Jack stopped his menagerie the King took himself and the
menagerie within the castle. He was washed and combed and dressed in a
suit of silk and satin, with all kinds of gold and silver ornaments, and
then was led before the King's daughter. And true enough she confessed
that a handsomer and finer fellow than Jack she had never seen, and she
was very willing to be his wife.
Jack sent for his poor old mother and brought her to the wedding, which
lasted nine days and nine nights, every night better than the other. All
the lords and ladies and gentry of Ireland were at the wedding. I was at
it, too, and got brogues, broth and slippers of bread, and came jigging
home on my head.