THE STORY OF SUNNY.
"Of course he was the giant,
With beard as white as snow."
But whenever Mr. Brand, poor man, came to call, Ted was sure in some
mysterious way to disappear. After a while his mother began to notice
it, though, as Mr. Brand did not come very often, she did not do so all
at once. She noticed, however, another thing which she was sorry for.
Ted took a dislike to the big mountain. It was a great pity, for before
that he had been so fond of it--so fond of watching the different
expressions, "looks" Ted called them, that it wore according to the time
of day, or the time of year, or the weather. And his father and mother
had been pleased to see him so "noticing," for such a little boy; they
thought it showed, as indeed it did, that he was likely to grow into a
happy-minded and happy-hearted man.
But now it was quite different. When he sat on his mother's knee in the
drawing-room he would turn his little face to the side away from the
window so that he should not see the towering mountain-head. He would
never laugh at his old friend's putting on his nightcap of mist, as he
used to do, and all his pretty fancies about being able to reach the
dear little stars if he were up on the top peak of all, were spoilt.
"Something has frightened Ted," said his mother to his father one day.
"I wonder what it can be. I know _you_ wouldn't frighten him, dear," she
added, turning to Percy who was in the room, though of course _Ted_ was
not there, otherwise his mother would not have said it, "but still, has
there been anything in your play that could have done so? Have you been
talking about mountains, or telling stories about them?"
"No," said Percy, thoughtfully; "I'm sure there has been nothing. Shall
I ask Ted about it? Perhaps he wouldn't mind telling me, not even as
much as----" Percy stopped and grew a little red. He was a boy of nice
feelings, not rough and knock-about in his ways like many schoolboys.
"Not even as much as telling _me_, you were going to say," said Ted's
mother, smiling. "Never mind, dear. I daresay it _would_ be easier for
him to tell you, and I am very glad my little boy has such a kind Percy
to talk to. But I think perhaps it is better to say nothing to him. We
may find it out by degrees, and if it is only a sort of fancy--he may
have seen the mountain looking gloomy some evening--it may fade away of
itself more quickly if we don't notice it."
That day was a very bright and lovely one. Ted's mother thought to
herself she would like to do something to make Ted, and Percy too,
"extra" happy, for the weeks had been running on fast--it would soon
be time for Percy, not being a little fish, to go back to school. And
Percy's big sister was with them too just then. She was even bigger than
Percy, so of course Ted thought her _quite_ grown up, though in reality
she was a good many years off being so. She was very nice any way, with
a gentle pretty face and kind eyes, and though she was not very old she
was very clever at telling stories, which is a most delightful thing in
a big sister or cousin--is it not? And she was also able to sing very
prettily, another delightful thing, or at least so Ted thought, for he
_was_ so fond of singing. This big girl's name was Mabel.
And after thinking a while and talking about it to Mabel, Ted's mother
thought the nicest thing would be to have tea in a lonely little nesty
place in the gorge between the mountains that I have told you of. We
were to go there with Ted and Cheviott some day, by the by, were we not?
Well, never mind, Cheviott shall be--that is to say he _was_--of the
gipsy tea-party, so that will come to the same thing, will it not?
They all set off--Ted's father and mother, another gentleman and lady
who were staying for the summer in a cottage not far off, that they
might be near their friends, their daughter who was _really_ grown up,
and Mabel and Percy and Ted. You can fancy the bread and butter there
was to cut, the home-made cake, the tea and sugar and cream that must
not be forgotten. And when all the baskets were ready and everybody was
helping and planning how to carry them, who do you think got hold of the
biggest of all and was trying to lug it along? Who but our
four-years-old Ted?
"My boy, my boy," cried his mother, laughing, for he did look
comical--the basket being really very nearly as big as himself and his
little face already quite red with the exertion, "you cannot possibly
take that basket. Why, _I_ could scarcely carry it."
"But boys is stronger than muzzers," said Ted gravely, and it was really
with difficulty that they could persuade him to give it up, and only
then by letting him carry another which _looked_ nearly as important but
was in reality much lighter, as it only held the tablecloth and the
teapot and teaspoons.
I have not told you about the gorge--not told you, I mean, how lovely
it was. Nor if I talked about it for hours could I half describe its
beauty. In spring time perhaps it was the prettiest of all, for then it
was rich in the early blossoms and flowers that are so quickly over, and
that seem to us doubly precious after the flower famine of the winter.
But not even in the early spring time, with all the beauty of primroses
and violets, could the gorge look lovelier than it did this summer
afternoon. For the ferns and bracken never seemed dusty and withered
in this favoured place--the grass and moss too, kept their freshness
through all the hot days as if tended by fairy fingers. It was thanks to
the river you see--the merry beautiful little river that came dancing
down the centre of this mountain-pass, at one part turning itself into a
waterfall, then, as if tired, for a little flowing along more quietly
through a short space of less precipitous road. But always beautiful,
always kindly and generous to the happy dwellers on its banks, keeping
them cool in the hottest days, tossing here and there its spray of
pearly drops as if in pretty fun.
On each side of the water ran a little footpath, and here and there
roughly-made rustic bridges across it tempted you to see if the other
side was as pretty as this, though when you had stood still to consider
about it you found it impossible to say! The paths were here and there
almost completely hidden, for they were so little trodden that the moss
had it all its own way with them, and sometimes too it took a scramble
and a climb to fight one's way through the tangled knots and fallen
fragments of rock which encumbered them. But now and then there came a
bit of level ground where the gorge widened slightly, and then the path
stopped for a while in a sort of glade from which again it emerged on
the other side. It was in one of these glades that Ted's mother arranged
the gipsy tea. Can you imagine a prettier place for a summer day's
treat? Overhead the bluest of blue skies and sunshine, tempered by the
leafy screen-work of the thickly growing trees; at one side the soft
rush of the silvery river, whose song was here low and gentle, though
one could hear in the distance the boom of the noisy waterfall; at the
other side the mountain slope, whose short brown slippery turf seemed to
tempt one to a climb. And close at hand the wealth of ferns and bracken
and flowers that I have told you of--a little higher up strange gleaming
balls of many kinds of fungus, yellow and orange, and even scarlet,
flamed out as if to rival the softer tints of the trailing honeysuckle
and delicate convolvulus and pink foxglove below. It was a lovely dream
of fairyland, and the knowing that not far away the waves of the broad
blue sea were gently lapping the sandy shore seemed somehow to make it
feel all the lovelier.
The tea of course was a great success--when was a gipsy tea, unless
people are _very_ cross-tempered and fidgety and difficult to please,
anything else? The kettle did its duty well, for the water boiled in it
beautifully on the fire of dry sticks and leaves which Percy and Mabel,
and busy Ted _of course_, had collected. The tea tasted very good--"not
'moky at all," said Ted; the slices of bread and butter and cake
disappeared in a wonderful way, till at last everybody said "No,
thank you, not any more," when the boys handed round the few
disconsolate-looking pieces that remained.
And after this there was the fun of washing up and packing away, in
which Ted greatly distinguished himself. He would not leave the least
shred of paper or even crumbs about, for the fairies would be angry, he
said, if their pretty house wasn't left "kite tidy." And Percy and Mabel
were amused at his fancy, and naturally enough it set them talking about
fairies and such like. For the children were by themselves now--the
ladies had gone on a little farther to a place where Ted's mother wanted
to sketch, and the gentlemen had set off to climb to the nearest peak,
from whence there was a beautiful view of the sea. It would have been
too much for Ted, and indeed when his father had asked him if he would
like to go part of the way with them, both his mother and Percy noticed
that a troubled look came over his happy face, as he said he would
rather stay where he was, which was strange for him, for though such a
little boy, he was always eager for a climb and anxious to do whatever
he saw any one else doing. So kind Percy, mindful of Ted's mother's
words, said he would not go either, and stayed with the others, helping
them to tidy up the fairies' house.
"Now," said Ted at last, sitting down on the grass at Mabel's feet, "now
I _sink_ the fairies will be p'eased. It's all kite tidy. Fairies is
always angry if peoples is untidy."
"I thought fairies were always in a good humour," said Percy. "I didn't
know they were ever angry."
"Oh, I think Ted's right," said Mabel. "They are angry with people who
are dirty or untidy. Don't you remember a story about them coming to
work in a house where the kitchen was always left tidy at night? And
they never would come to the next house because it was always in a
mess."
"P'ease tell me that story, Mabel," said Ted.
"I'm afraid I don't remember it very well," she replied.
"Do you remember," said Percy, who was lying on the ground staring up at
the sky and the bit of brown mountain peak that could be seen from where
he was, "do you remember, Mab, the story of a little boy that fell
asleep on the top of a mountain, and the fairies spirited him away, and
took him down to their country, down inside the mountain? And he thought
he had only been away--when he came home again, I mean, for they had to
let him out again after a while--he thought he had only been away a day
or two, and, fancy, it had been twenty years! All the children had grown
big, and the young people middle-aged, and the middle-aged people quite
old, and none of them knew him again. He had lost all his childhood.
Wasn't it sad?"
"Yes, _very_" said Mabel; "I remember the story."
"I think it's dedful," said Ted. "I don't like mountains, and I don't
like diants. I'll never go up a mountain, never."
"But it wasn't the mountain's fault, Ted," said Percy. "And it wasn't
giants, it was fairies."
"I sink p'raps it was diants," persisted Ted. "I don't like zem. Mr.
Brand is a diant," he added mysteriously, in a low voice.
Percy had been thinking of what Ted's mother had said. Now he felt sure
that it was something to do with Mr. Brand that had frightened the
little fellow. But Mabel did not know about it.
"I like mountains," she said. "Indeed I love them. I am always so glad
to live where I can see their high peaks reaching up into the sky."
"But it wouldn't be nice to be alone, kite alone, on the top of one of
zem, would it?" said Ted.
"No, it wouldn't be nice to be alone in any far-off place like that,"
said Percy, "but of course nobody would ever stay up on the top of a
mountain alone."
"But if zem was _made_ to," said Ted doubtfully. "I wouldn't mind so
much if I had Chevie," he added, putting his arm round the dear doggie's
neck and leaning his little fair head on him, for of course Chevie was
of the party.
"Poor Ted," said Percy, laughing. "No one would ever make _you_ live
up all alone on the top of a mountain. Mabel, I wish you'd tell us a
story," he said to his sister. "It's so nice here. I shall go to sleep
if somebody doesn't do something to keep me awake."
He was lying at full length on the soft mossy grass, in the same place
still, and gazing up at the blue sky and brown mountain peak. "Tell us a
story, Mab," he repeated lazily.
"I haven't got any very nice ones just now," said Mabel. "I have been so
busy with my lessons, you know, Percy, that I haven't had time for any
stories."
"Can't you make them up yourself?" said Percy.
"Sometimes I do, a little," she replied. "But I can't make them all
quite myself. Sometimes in our German reading-books there are funny
little bits of stories, and I add on to them. There was one--oh yes,
I'll tell you one about a giant who lived on the top of a mountain."
Ted drew nearer to Mabel, and nestled in to her side.
"A diant on the top of a mountain," he repeated. "Is it very
f'ightening, Mabel?"
"Oh no. Listen and I'll tell you. Once, a long time ago, there was, a
long way off, a strange country. There were lots and lots of forests in
it, and at the side of the biggest forest of all there rose a chain of
high mountains. The people who lived in this forest were poor, simple
sort of people--they hadn't much time for anything but work, for it was
difficult to gain enough to live on. Most of them were charcoal-burners,
and there were not very many of them altogether. Of course in a forest
there wouldn't be much room for cottages and houses, would there? And
their cottages were none of them near together. Each family had its own
hut, quite separated from the others, and unless you belonged to the
forest you could hardly find your way from one part of it to the other.
The poor people, too, were so busy that they had not much time for going
to see each other, or for amusing themselves in any way. They all had a
pale sad look, something like the look that I have heard papa say the
poor people in some parts of England have--the people in those parts
where they work so awfully hard in dark smoky towns and never see the
sun, or the green fields, or anything fresh and pretty. Of course the
forest people were not as badly off as _that_--for their work any way
was in the open air, and the forest was clean--not like dirty factories,
even though it was so dark. It was the want of sunshine that was their
worst trouble, and that gave them that white, dull, half-frightened
look. The forest was too thick and dense for the sun to get really into
it, even in winter, and then, of course, the rays are so thin and pale
that they aren't much good if they do come. And the mountains at the
side came so close down to the edge of the forest that there was no
getting any sunshine there either, for it was the north side there, the
side that the sunshine couldn't get to. So for these reasons the place
had come to be called 'the sunless country.'"
"What was there at the other side of the forest?" said Percy; "couldn't
they have got into the sunshine at that side?"
"No," said Mabel. "I think there was a river or something. Or else it
was that the forest was so very, very big that it would have been quite
a journey to get out at any other side. I think that was it. Any way
they couldn't. And they just had to live on without sunshine as well as
they could. Their fathers had done so before them, and there was no help
for it, they thought. They were too poor and too hard-worked to move
away to another country, or to do anything but just go through each day
as it came in a dull sad way, seldom speaking even to each other.
"But do you know, it had _not_ always been so in the sunless forest,
though the better times were so long ago that hardly any of the poor
people knew it had ever been different. There had, once upon a time,
been a way into the sunshine on the other side of the mountain, and this
way lay right through the great hill itself. But the mountain belonged
to a great and very powerful giant"--at this Ted edged still closer to
Mabel--"who lived in it quite alone. Sometimes he used to come out at
a hole in the top, which was his door, and stay up there for a while
looking about him, staring at the black forest down at his feet, and
smiling grimly to himself at the thought of how dark and dull it must be
for the people who lived in it. For he was not a kind giant at all. It
was he that had shut up the passage through which the poor forest people
used to pass to their bright cottages on the other side, for in those
days they didn't _live_ in the forest, they only went there for their
work, and on Sundays and holidays they were all happy and merry
together, and the little children grew up rosy and bright, quite
different from the poor little wan-faced creatures that now hung sadly
about at the hut doors in the forest, looking as if they didn't know how
to laugh or play."
"Why did the naughty diant shut up the way?" asked Ted.
"Because he had a quarrel with the forest people. He wanted them to let
their little boys and girls, or some of them, come to him to be his
servants, but they wouldn't, and so he was so angry that he shut up the
door. But that was so long ago now that the people had almost forgotten
about it--the children that the giant had wanted to be his servants were
old grandfathers and grandmothers now, and some of them were dead, I
daresay, so that the real history of their troubles was forgotten by
them but not by the giant, for whenever he came out at the top of the
mountain to take some air, he used to look down at the forest and think
how dull and miserable they must be there."
"Nasty diant," said Ted.
"Yes, he was very unkind, but still I think you would have been rather
sorry for him too. He was old and all alone, and of course nobody loved
him. The people in the forest hardly ever spoke of him. They knew he
was there, or that he used to be there, and now and then some of the
children who had heard about him used to feel afraid of him and whisper
to each other that he would eat them up if he could catch them, but that
was about all the notice they took of him. They seemed to have forgotten
that he was the cause of their sad, gloomy lives, and indeed I am not
sure that any except some very old people really knew. Among these very
old people there were a man and his wife who were almost the poorest of
all in the forest. They were so poor because they were almost past work,
and they had no children to work for them. All that they had was a
little granddaughter, who lived with them because her father and mother
were dead. And it was a queer thing that she was quite different from
the other poor children in the forest. They were all pale and sad and
crushed-looking like their parents. This little girl was bright-haired
and bright-eyed and rosy-cheeked. She was the one merry happy creature
in the forest, and all the poor people used to stand and look at her as
she flitted about, and wish that their children were the same. I don't
know what her real name was; the story didn't tell, but the name she
got to have among the forest people was Sunshine--at least it was
Sunshine in German, but I think 'Sunny' is a nicer name, don't you?"
"Yes," said Percy; and
"Ses," said Ted, "'Sunny' is nicest."
"Well, we'll call her 'Sunny.' The reason that she was so different was
partly that she hadn't been born in the forest. Her father, who was the
son of these old people, had gone away, as some few of the forest people
did, to another country, and there he had married a bright-haired,
pretty girl. But she had died, and he himself got very ill, and he had
only strength to bring his baby girl back to the forest to his parents
when he too died. So Sunny's history had been rather sad, you see, but
still it hadn't made _her_ sad--it seemed as if the sunshine was _in_
her somehow, and that nothing could send it away."
Mabel stopped. Voices and steps were heard coming near.
"They're coming back," she said. "I'll have to finish the story another
time. I didn't think it would take so long to tell."
"Oh _do_ go on now, dear, dear Mabel, oh _do_!" cried Ted beseechingly.
But Mabel's fair face grew red.
"I couldn't, Ted, dear," she said, "not before big people," and Percy
sympathised with her.
"We'll hear the rest in the garden at home," he said.
"Thoo won't tell it without me, not without Ted, p'ease," asked the
little fellow.
"No, no, of course not, darling," said Mabel as she kissed his eager
face.
Just then a ray of bright evening sunshine fell on Ted's brown hair,
lighting it up and deepening it to gold, and as the little fellow caught
it in his eyes, he looked up laughing.
"There's Sunny kissing Ted too," he said merrily.