NOW after seven years of wandering, Herve had earned money enough to
keep his mother in comfort. He longed to go to school and be taught
things, to grow wise like his father, who had been called the Little
Sage, and to learn how to make songs for himself. For he felt that it
was time for him to come into the kingdom of Hyvarnion and Rivanone; and
the songs shut in his heart were bursting to come out.
Gourvoyed, the brother of Rivanone, was a holy hermit who lived alone in
the forest, and he would teach Herve, his nephew, for love of him. For
Gourvoyed was a wise man, skilled in all things, but especially in the
making of songs.
It was a blessed morning when Herve started for his school in the woods;
he was going to his kingdom! The sunlight framed his fair curls in a
halo of light, as if giving him a blessing. Birds sang all along the way
as if telling him that with Gourvoyed he would learn to make music even
sweeter than theirs. The wolf led him eagerly, bounding with joy; for he
shared in all the hopes of Herve's life. And all the creatures knew that
he would become a great poet. And so indeed it was.
For Herve soon learned all that Gourvoyed could teach, and in his turn
he became a master. Many pupils came to the hut in the forest which the
hermit gave up to him, and begged Herve to make them singer-poets like
himself. But he could not do that. He could teach them to sing and to
play the harp; but no one could sing as well as he sang, or play as well
as he played. And no one can ever be taught to make poetry unless he has
it in his soul, as Herve had. For that is a royal gift, and it came to
Herve from Hyvarnion and Rivanone, the King and Queen of music and of
song. It was Herve's kingdom, and it was given him to take away the
bitterness from his name, to make it remembered as sweet, sweet, sweet.
And now on his wanderings from town to town Herve was received like a
prince. He sat at great lords' tables, and sang in ladies' bowers. He
had golden goblets as his gifts, and shining gems to wear if he chose.
But he was so generous that he gave them all away. Never was there heard
music so sweet as his; never were there songs so beautiful as he sang to
the rippling of his father's golden harp. For Herve was even a greater
minstrel than Hyvarnion or Rivanone had been.
In his wanderings all about the country Herve came to many strange
places and met with many strange adventures. Once he spent the night at
the castle of a great lord who made Herve sit on his right hand at table
and honored him above all his guests. When the banquet was over, at the
Count's request a page brought to Herve his golden harp, and they all
shouted for "A song! a song!" Every one pushed back his stool to
listen, and Herve took the harp and ran his finger over the golden
strings with a sound like drops of rain upon the flowers.
Now outside the castle, beyond the moat, was a pond. And in the pond
lived a whole colony of great green bullfrogs, whose voices were gruffer
and grummer than the lowest twanging note on Herve's harp. And as soon
as Herve began to sing these rude frogs began to bellow and growl as if
trying to drown his music. Perhaps they were jealous; for Herve's voice
was sweeter than a silver bell. But all they could sing was "Ker-_chog_!
Ker-r-kity-chog, Ker-_chog_!" which is neither very musical nor very
original, being the same tune which all the frog-people have sung from
the earliest days.
Now Herve was displeased by their disagreeable noise. He could not sing
nor play, nor think of the words which belonged with his music: only the
"Ker-_chog_! Ker-r-kity-chog! Ker-_chog_!" sounded in his ears. And it
grew louder and louder every moment as one by one all the frogs joined
in the chorus.
Herve waited for them to stop. But when he found that they did not mean
to do this, but were really trying to drown his voice, he was very
angry. He strode to the window holding his harp in his hand. And leaning
far out he struck another of his wonderful chords of music, such as had
charmed the mocking children once before, as you remember.
"Sing your last song, O Frogs," he said. "Sing your last Ker-_chog_, for
henceforth you will be silent. I command you from this night never to
open your mouths again. All save one, the littlest of you all. And he
shall sing forever, without cease, to remind you of your rudeness to
me." And no sooner had he ceased speaking when there came a great
silence outside the window, broken only by one wee piping tadpole voice.
"Ker-_chog_! Ker-r-kity-chog! Ker-_chog_!" he chanted his sad little
solo. And all alone he had to sing and sing this same tune forever. I
dare say one can hear him yet in the greeny pond outside that old French
castle.