from England, beyond the sea, have I come to bring you a greeting from
that land, and a message from the All-Father, whose servant I am.”
“Welcome, then,” said Hunrad, “welcome, kinsman, and be silent; for
what passes here is too high to wait, and must be done before the moon
crosses the middle heaven, unless, indeed, thou hast some sign or token
from the gods. Canst thou work miracles?”
The question came sharply, as if a sudden gleam of hope had flashed
through the tangle of the old priest’s mind. But Winfried’s voice sank
lower and a cloud of disappointment passed over his face as he replied:
“Nay, miracles have I never wrought, though I have heard of many; but
the All-Father has given no power to my hands save such as belongs to
common man.”
“Stand still, then, thou common man,” said Hunrad, scornfully, “and
behold what the gods have called us hither to do. This night is the
death-night of the sun-god, Baldur the Beautiful, beloved of gods
and men. This night is the hour of darkness and the power of winter,
of sacrifice and mighty fear. This night the great Thor, the god of
thunder and war, to whom this oak is sacred, is grieved for the death
of Baldur, and angry with this people because they have forsaken his
worship. Long is it since an offering has been laid upon his altar,
long since the roots of his holy tree have been fed with blood.
Therefore its leaves have withered before the time, and its boughs are
heavy with death. Therefore the Slavs and the Wends have beaten us in
battle. Therefore the harvests have failed, and the wolf-hordes have
ravaged the folds, and the strength has departed from the bow, and the
wood of the spear has broken, and the wild boar has slain the huntsman.
Therefore the plague has fallen on our dwellings, and the dead are more
than the living in all our villages. Answer me, ye people, are not
these things true?”
A hoarse sound of approval ran through the circle. A chant, in which
the voices of the men and women blended, like the shrill wind in the
pine-trees above the rumbling thunder of a waterfall, rose and fell in
rude cadences.
“O Thor, the Thunderer,
Mighty and merciless,
Spare us from smiting!
Heave not thy hammer,
Angry, against us;
Plague not thy people.
Take from our treasure
Richest of ransom.
Silver we send thee,
Jewels and javelins,
Goodliest garments,
All our possessions,
Priceless, we proffer.
Sheep will we slaughter,
Steeds will we sacrifice;
Bright blood shall bathe thee,
O tree of Thunder,
Life-floods shall lave thee,
Strong wood of wonder.
Mighty, have mercy,
Smite us no more,
Spare us and save us,
Spare us, Thor! Thor!”
With two great shouts the song ended, and a stillness followed so
intense that the crackling of the fire was heard distinctly. The old
priest stood silent for a moment. His shaggy brows swept down over his
eyes like ashes quenching flame. Then he lifted his face and spoke.
“None of these things will please the god. More costly is the offering
that shall cleanse your sin, more precious the crimson dew that shall
send new life into this holy tree of blood. Thor claims your dearest
and your noblest gift.”
Hunrad moved nearer to the handful of children who stood watching the
red mines in the fire and the swarms of spark-serpents darting upward.
They had heeded none of the priest’s words, and did not notice now that
he approached them, so eager were they to see which fiery snake would
go highest among the oak branches. Foremost among them, and most intent
on the pretty game, was a boy like a sunbeam, slender and quick, with
blithe brown eyes and laughing lips. The priest’s hand was laid upon
his shoulder. The boy turned and looked up in his face.
“Here,” said the old man, with his voice vibrating as when a thick rope
is strained by a ship swinging from her moorings, “here is the chosen
one, the eldest son of the Chief, the darling of the people. Hearken,
Bernhard, wilt thou go to Valhalla, where the heroes dwell with the
gods, to bear a message to Thor?”
The boy answered, swift and clear:
“Yes, priest, I will go if my father bids me. Is it far away? Shall I
run quickly? Must I take my bow and arrows for the wolves?”
The boy’s father, the Chieftain Gundhar, standing among his bearded
warriors, drew his breath deep, and leaned so heavily on the handle of
his spear that the wood cracked. And his wife, Irma, bending forward
from the ranks of women, pushed the golden hair from her forehead with
one hand. The other dragged at the silver chain about her neck until
the rough links pierced her flesh, and the red drops fell unheeded on
the snow of her breast.
A sigh passed through the crowd, like the murmur of the forest before
the storm breaks. Yet no one spoke save Hunrad:
“Yes, my Prince, both bow and spear shalt thou have, for the way is
long, and thou art a brave huntsman. But in darkness thou must journey
for a little space, and with eyes blindfolded. Fearest thou?”
“Naught fear I,” said the boy, “neither darkness, nor the great bear,
nor the were-wolf. For I am Gundhar’s son, and the defender of my folk.”
Then the priest led the child in his raiment of lamb’s-wool to a broad
stone in front of the fire. He gave him his little bow tipped with
silver, and his spear with shining head of steel. He bound the child’s
eyes with a white cloth, and bade him kneel beside the stone with his
face to the east. Unconsciously the wide arc of spectators drew inward
toward the centre, as the ends of the bow draw together when the cord
is stretched. Winfried moved noiselessly until he stood close behind
the priest.
The old man stooped to lift a black hammer of stone from the
ground,—the sacred hammer of the god Thor. Summoning all the strength
of his withered arms, he swung it high in the air. It poised for an
instant above the child’s fair head—then turned to fall.
One keen cry shrilled out from where the women stood: “Me! take me! not
Bernhard!”
The flight of the mother towards her child was swift as the falcon’s
swoop. But swifter still was the hand of the deliverer.
Winfried’s heavy staff thrust mightily against the hammer’s handle as
it fell. Sideways it glanced from the old man’s grasp, and the black
stone, striking on the altar’s edge, split in twain. A shout of awe and
joy rolled along the living circle. The branches of the oak shivered.
The flames leaped higher. As the shout died away the people saw the
lady Irma, with her arms clasped round her child, and above them, on
the altar-stone, Winfried, his face shining like the face of an angel.
IV
THE FELLING OF THE TREE
A swift mountain-flood rolling down its channel; a huge rock tumbling
from the hill-side and falling in mid-stream; the baffled waters broken
and confused, pausing in their flow, dash high against the rock,
foaming and murmuring, with divided impulse, uncertain whether to turn
to the right or the left.
Even so Winfried’s bold deed fell into the midst of the thoughts and
passions of the council. They were at a standstill. Anger and wonder,
reverence and joy and confusion surged through the crowd. They knew not
which way to move: to resent the intrusion of the stranger as an insult
to their gods, or to welcome him as the rescuer of their darling prince.
The old priest crouched by the altar, silent. Conflicting counsels
troubled the air. Let the sacrifice go forward; the gods must be
appeased. Nay, the boy must not die; bring the chieftain’s best horse
and slay it in his stead; it will be enough; the holy tree loves the
blood of horses. Not so, there is a better counsel yet; seize the
stranger whom the gods have led hither as a victim and make his life
pay the forfeit of his daring.
The withered leaves on the oak rustled and whispered overhead. The fire
flared and sank again. The angry voices clashed against each other and
fell like opposing waves. Then the chieftain Gundhar struck the earth
with his spear and gave his decision.
“All have spoken, but none are agreed. There is no voice of the
council. Keep silence now, and let the stranger speak. His words shall
give us judgment, whether he is to live or to die.”
Winfried lifted himself high upon the altar, drew a roll of parchment
from his bosom, and began to read.
“A letter from the great Bishop of Rome, who sits on a golden throne,
to the people of the forest, Hessians and Thuringians, Franks and
Saxons. _In nomine Domini, sanctae et individuae trinitatis, amen!_”
A murmur of awe ran through the crowd. “It is the sacred tongue of the
Romans: the tongue that is heard and understood by the wise men of
every land. There is magic in it. Listen!”
Winfried went on to read the letter, translating it into the speech of
the people.
“‘We have sent unto you our Brother Boniface, and appointed him your
bishop, that he may teach you the only true faith, and baptize you, and
lead you back from the ways of error to the path of salvation. Hearken
to him in all things like a father. Bow your hearts to his teaching.
He comes not for earthly gain, but for the gain of your souls. Depart
from evil works. Worship not the false gods, for they are devils. Offer
no more bloody sacrifices, nor eat the flesh of horses, but do as our
Brother Boniface commands you. Build a house for him that he may dwell
among you, and a church where you may offer your prayers to the only
living God, the Almighty King of Heaven.’”
It was a splendid message: proud, strong, peaceful, loving. The dignity
of the words imposed mightily upon the hearts of the people. They were
quieted, as men who have listened to a lofty strain of music.
“Tell us, then,” said Gundhar, “what is the word that thou bringest
to us from the Almighty. What is thy counsel for the tribes of the
woodland on this night of sacrifice?”
“This is the word, and this is the counsel,” answered Winfried. “Not a
drop of blood shall fall to-night, save that which pity has drawn from
the breast of your princess, in love for her child. Not a life shall
be blotted out in the darkness to-night; but the great shadow of the
tree which hides you from the light of heaven shall be swept away. For
this is the birth-night of the white Christ, son of the All-Father, and
Saviour of mankind. Fairer is He than Baldur the Beautiful, greater
than Odin the Wise, kinder than Freya the Good. Since He has come to
earth the bloody sacrifices must cease. The dark Thor, on whom you
vainly call, is dead. Deep in the shades of Niffelheim he is lost
forever. His power in the world is broken. Will you serve a helpless
god? See, my brothers, you call this tree his oak. Does he dwell here?
Does he protect it?”
A troubled voice of assent rose from the throng. The people stirred
uneasily. Women covered their eyes. Hunrad lifted his head and muttered
hoarsely, “Thor! take vengeance! Thor!”
Winfried beckoned to Gregor. “Bring the axes, thine and one for me.
Now, young woodsman, show thy craft! The king-tree of the forest must
fall, and swiftly, or all is lost!”
The two men took their places facing each other, one on each side of
the oak. Their cloaks were flung aside, their heads bare. Carefully
they felt the ground with their feet, seeking a firm grip of the earth.
Firmly they grasped the axe-helves and swung the shining blades.
“Tree-god!” cried Winfried, “art thou angry? Thus we smite thee!”
“Tree-god!” answered Gregor, “art thou mighty? Thus we fight thee!”
Clang! clang! the alternate strokes beat time upon the hard, ringing
wood. The axe-heads glittered in their rhythmic flight, like fierce
eagles circling about their quarry.
The broad flakes of wood flew from the deepening gashes in the sides
of the oak. The huge trunk quivered. There was a shuddering in the
branches. Then the great wonder of Winfried’s life came to pass.
Out of the stillness of the winter night, a mighty rushing noise
sounded overhead.
Was it the ancient gods on their white battle-steeds, with their black
hounds of wrath and their arrows of lightning, sweeping through the air
to destroy their foes?
A strong, whirling wind passed over the tree-tops. It gripped the oak
by its branches and tore it from its roots. Backward it fell, like a
ruined tower, groaning and crashing as it split asunder in four great
pieces.
Winfried let his axe drop, and bowed his head for a moment in the
presence of almighty power.
Then he turned to the people, “Here is the timber,” he cried, “already
felled and split for your new building. On this spot shall rise a
chapel to the true God and his servant St. Peter.”
“And here,” said he, as his eyes fell on a young fir-tree, standing
straight and green, with its top pointing towards the stars, amid the
divided ruins of the fallen oak, “here is the living tree, with no
stain of blood upon it, that shall be the sign of your new worship. See
how it points to the sky. Let us call it the tree of the Christ-child.
Take it up and carry it to the chieftain’s hall. You shall go no more
into the shadows of the forest to keep your feasts with secret rites of
shame. You shall keep them at home, with laughter and song and rites of
love. The thunder-oak has fallen, and I think the day is coming when
there shall not be a home in all Germany where the children are not
gathered around the green fir-tree to rejoice in the birth-night of
Christ.”
So they took the little fir from its place, and carried it in joyous
procession to the edge of the glade, and laid it on the sledge. The
horses tossed their heads and drew their load bravely, as if the new
burden had made it lighter.
When they came to the house of Gundhar, he bade them throw open the
doors of the hall and set the tree in the midst of it. They kindled
lights among the branches until it seemed to be tangled full of
fire-flies. The children encircled it, wondering, and the sweet odor of
the balsam filled the house.
Then Winfried stood beside the chair of Gundhar, on the daïs at the
end of the hall, and told the story of Bethlehem; of the babe in the
manger, of the shepherds on the hills, of the host of angels and their
midnight song. All the people listened, charmed into stillness.
But the boy Bernhard, on Irma’s knee, folded by her soft arm, grew
restless as the story lengthened, and began to prattle softly at his
mother’s ear.
“Mother,” whispered the child, “why did you cry out so loud, when the
priest was going to send me to Valhalla?”
“Oh, hush, my child,” answered the mother, and pressed him closer to
her side.
“Mother,” whispered the boy again, laying his finger on the stains upon
her breast, “see, your dress is red! What are these stains? Did some
one hurt you?”
The mother closed his mouth with a kiss. “Dear, be still, and listen!”
The boy obeyed. His eyes were heavy with sleep. But he heard the last
words of Winfried as he spoke of the angelic messengers, flying over
the hills of Judea and singing as they flew. The child wondered and
dreamed and listened. Suddenly his face grew bright. He put his lips
close to Irma’s cheek again.
“Oh, mother!” he whispered very low, “do not speak. Do you hear them?
Those angels have come back again. They are singing now behind the
tree.”
And some say that it was true; but others say that it was only Gregor
and his companions at the lower end of the hall, chanting their
Christmas hymn:
“‘All glory be to God on high,
And to the earth be peace!
Good-will, henceforth, from heaven to men
Begin, and never cease.’”
A FRENCH TAR-BABY
BY
JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS
The fable was one of the first tributaries to the stream of
story-telling. Primitive man with a kind of fine democracy claimed
kinship with the animals about him. So Hiawatha learned the language
and the secrets of birds and beasts,
“Talked with them whene’er he met them,
Called them Hiawatha’s Brothers.”
Out of this intimacy and understanding grew the fable, wherein animals
thought, acted, and talked in the terms of human life. This kind of
story is illustrated by the “Fables” of Æsop, the animal stories of
Ernest Thompson-Seton, the “Jungle Books” of Rudyard Kipling, and the
“Uncle Remus” stories of Joel Chandler Harris. The fable is a tale
rather than a true short-story.
A FRENCH TAR-BABY[4]
In the time when there were hobgoblins and fairies, Brother Goat and
Brother Rabbit lived in the same neighborhood, not far from each other.
Proud of his long beard and sharp horns, Brother Goat looked on Brother
Rabbit with disdain. He would hardly speak to Brother Rabbit when he
met him, and his greatest pleasure was to make his little neighbor the
victim of his tricks and practical jokes. For instance, he would say:
“Brother Rabbit, here is Mr. Fox,” and this would cause Brother Rabbit
to run away as hard as he could. Again he would say:
“Brother Rabbit, here is Mr. Wolf,” and poor Brother Rabbit would shake
and tremble with fear. Sometimes he would cry out:
“Brother Rabbit, here is Mr. Tiger,” and then Brother Rabbit would
shudder and think that his last hour had come.
Tired of this miserable existence, Brother Rabbit tried to think of
some means by which he could change his powerful and terrible neighbor
into a friend. After a time he thought he had discovered a way to make
Brother Goat his friend, and so he invited him to dinner.
Brother Goat was quick to accept the invitation. The dinner was a
fine affair, and there was an abundance of good eating. A great many
different dishes were served. Brother Goat licked his mouth and shook
his long beard with satisfaction. He had never before been present at
such a feast.
“Well, my friend,” exclaimed Brother Rabbit, when the dessert was
brought in, “how do you like your dinner?”
“I could certainly wish for nothing better,” replied Brother Goat,
rubbing the tips of his horns against the back of his chair; “but my
throat is very dry and a little water would hurt neither the dinner nor
me.”
“Gracious!” said Brother Rabbit, “I have neither wine-cellar nor water.
I am not in the habit of drinking while I am eating.”
“Neither have I any water, Brother Rabbit,” said Brother Goat. “But I
have an idea! If you will go with me over yonder by the big poplar, we
will dig a well.”
“No, Brother Goat,” said Brother Rabbit, who hoped to revenge
himself—“no, I do not care to dig a well. At daybreak I drink the dew
from the cups of the flowers, and in the heat of the day I milk the
cows and drink the cream.”
“Well and good,” said Brother Goat. “Alone I will dig the well, and
alone I will drink out of it.”
“Success to you, Brother Goat,” said Brother Rabbit.
“Thank you kindly, Brother Rabbit.”
Brother Goat then went to the foot of the big poplar and began to dig
his well. He dug with his forefeet and with his horns, and the well got
deeper and deeper. Soon the water began to bubble up and the well was
finished, and then Brother Goat made haste to quench his thirst. He was
in such a hurry that his beard got in the water, but he drank and drank
until he had his fill.
Brother Rabbit, who had followed him at a little distance, hid himself
behind a bush and laughed heartily. He said to himself: “What an
innocent creature you are!”
The next day, when Brother Goat, with his big beard and sharp horns,
returned to his well to get some water, he saw the tracks of Brother
Rabbit in the soft earth. This put him to thinking. He sat down, pulled
his beard, scratched his head, and tapped himself on the forehead.
“My friend,” he exclaimed after a while, “I will catch you yet.”
Then he ran and got his tools (for Brother Goat was something of a
carpenter in those days) and made a large doll out of laurel wood.
When the doll was finished, he spread tar on it here and there, on the
right and on the left, and up and down. He smeared it all over with the
sticky stuff, until it was as black as a Guinea negro.
This finished, Brother Goat waited quietly until evening. At sunset he
placed the tarred doll near the well, and ran and hid himself behind
the trees and bushes. The moon had just risen, and the heavens twinkled
with millions of little star-torches.
Brother Rabbit, who was waiting in his house, believed that the time
had come for him to get some water, so he took his bucket and went to
Brother Goat’s well. On the way he was very much afraid that something
would catch him. He trembled when the wind shook the leaves of the
trees. He would go a little distance and then stop and listen; he hid
here behind a stone, and there behind a tuft of grass.
At last he arrived at the well, and there he saw the little negro. He
stopped and looked at it with astonishment. Then he drew back a little
way, advanced again, drew back, advanced a little, and stopped once
more.
“What can that be?” he said to himself. He listened, with his long ears
pointed forward, but the trees could not talk, and the bushes were
dumb. He winked his eyes and lowered his head:
“Hey, friend! who are you?” he asked.
The tar-doll didn’t move. Brother Rabbit went up a little closer, and
asked again:
“Who are you?”
The tar-doll said nothing. Brother Rabbit breathed more at ease. Then
he went to the brink of the well, but when he looked in the water the
tar-doll seemed to look in too. He could see her reflection in the
water. This made Brother Rabbit so mad that he grew red in the face.
“See here!” he exclaimed, “if you look in this well I’ll give you a rap
on the nose!”
Brother Rabbit leaned over the brink of the well, and saw the tar-doll
smiling at him in the water. He raised his right hand and hit her—bam!
His hand stuck.
“What’s this?” exclaimed Brother Rabbit. “Turn me loose, imp of Satan!
If you do not, I will rap you on the eye with my other hand.”
Then he hit her—bim! The left hand stuck also. Then Brother Rabbit
raised his right foot, saying:
“Mark me well, little Congo! Do you see this foot? I will kick you in
the stomach if you do not turn me loose this instant.”
No sooner said than done. Brother Rabbit let fly his right foot—vip!
The foot stuck, and he raised the other.
“Do you see this foot?” he exclaimed. “If I hit you with it, you will
think a thunderbolt has struck you.”
Then he kicked her with the left foot, and it also stuck like the
other, and Brother Rabbit held fast his Guinea negro.
“Watch out, now!” he cried. “I’ve already butted a great many people
with my head. If I butt you in your ugly face I’ll knock it into a
jelly. Turn me loose! Oho! you don’t answer?” Bap!
“Guinea girl!” exclaimed Brother Rabbit, “are you dead? Gracious
goodness! how my head does stick!”
When the sun rose, Brother Goat went to his well to find out something
about Brother Rabbit. The result was beyond his expectations.
“Hey, little rogue, big rogue!” exclaimed Brother Goat. “Hey, Brother
Rabbit! what are you doing there? I thought you drank the dew from the
cups of the flowers, or milk from the cows. Aha, Brother Rabbit! I will
punish you for stealing my water.”
“I am your friend,” said Brother Rabbit; “don’t kill me.”
“Thief, thief!” cried Brother Goat, and then he ran quickly into the
woods, gathered up a pile of dry limbs, and made a great fire. He took
Brother Rabbit from the tar-doll, and prepared to burn him alive. As he
was passing a thicket of brambles with Brother Rabbit on his shoulders,
Brother Goat met his daughter Bélédie, who was walking about in the
fields.
“Where are you going, papa, muffled up with such a burden? Come and
eat the fresh grass with me, and throw wicked Brother Rabbit in the
brambles.”
Cunning Brother Rabbit raised his long ears and pretended to be very
much frightened.
“Oh, no, Brother Goat!” he cried. “Don’t throw me in the brambles. They
will tear my flesh, put out my eyes, and pierce my heart. Oh, I pray
you, rather throw me in the fire.”
“Aha, little rogue, big rogue! Aha, Brother Rabbit!” exclaimed Brother
Goat, exultingly, “you don’t like the brambles? Well, then, go and
laugh in them,” and he threw Brother Rabbit in without a feeling of
pity.
Brother Rabbit fell in the brambles, leaped to his feet, and began to
laugh.
“Ha-ha-ha! Brother Goat, what a simpleton you are!—ha-ha-ha! A better
bed I never had! In these brambles I was born!”
Brother Goat was in despair, but he could not help himself. Brother
Rabbit was safe.
A long beard is not always a sign of intelligence.
SONNY’S CHRISTENIN’
BY
RUTH MCENERY STUART
This is the story of character, in the form of dramatic monologue.
There is only one speaker, but we know by his words that another is
present and can infer his part in the conversation. This story has the
additional values of humor and local color.
SONNY’S CHRISTENIN’[5]