“Would you not rather go back to your beautiful Fairyland, where you
can be happy and care-free always?”
“Nay, dear Mother,” said the Fairy; “if the choice were mine I would
rather remain here with you than anywhere in the whole wide world, for
I have been very happy here and I have learned many things. I do not
want to go back to Fairyland to be an idle, careless, selfish Fairy. I
would rather be a human child and share my mother’s joys and sorrows.
Dear Mother, will you have it so?”
“Yes, I will have it so!” cried the old woman joyfully.
“Think,” said the Fairy, lifting a warning finger, “think of the
fine feasts and the dainties you might have. Think of the youth and
strength. Would you give up all this for only me--who must share half
the refreshment from your well, your bucket, and your teapot?”
“That is enough,” said the old woman. “What do we need more? We can
still offer a sup to any poor stranger who may come as you came to my
door. Oh, dear child, if you will stay with me, that is all I ask!”
“Well, then, let us sit down and have breakfast,” said the dear little
girl, tossing her green cap into the fire. “Now I am a Fairy no longer,
but your very own little girl-child. And here is a dipper of water--the
only one left in the well. Here is a dish of rice--I used the last
handful from the bucket. Here is just a tiny drop of tea in the teapot.
Oh, Mother, I am so glad!”
So they sat down to their frugal meal, and they laughed, and they
laughed, and they laughed, they were so happy.
CHILD OR FAIRY
’Tis good to be a Fairy-thing,
And flit about on gauzy wing;
To sleep in cradles made of flowers,
Or play through all the joyous hours.
For Fairies have no grief nor care,
Happy they are, and always fair,--
I suppose.
And yet ’tis better far to be
A little human child like me,
With lessons hard and tasks to do,
And sometimes little troubles, too.
For I have Mother’s tender kiss,
And nothing is so good as this,--
Every one knows!
KARL AND THE DRYAD
[Illustration]
KARL AND THE DRYAD
There was once a lad named Karl who lived with his father and mother
in a little village of the Flat Land. Karl was a big fellow, tall and
yellow-haired. But all his strength was in his long, lean body. There
was none in his poor head. Karl was the village simpleton.
Poor Karl! His life was a sorry one. He was despised and jeered at by
the whole village. The children followed and tormented him at every
chance, because he could not learn at school; the grown folk were
little kinder, but nudged one another and made jokes about him when he
came to the market-place. Even the cur-dogs followed and barked at him,
but they knew no better. They were cruel folk, those dwellers in the
Flat Land.
Karl’s own parents were the unkindest of all. They did not love their
son nor pity his wretchedness, but were ashamed because he was so
simple. They were angry, too, because in their poverty he could not
help them earn a living. For there seemed little indeed that poor Karl
could learn to do,--he was so very simple. His parents were continually
telling him how useless he was in this workaday world.
“Oh, you stupid fellow!” they would sometimes say, driving him
out of the house with blows of broom or stick. “Oh, you great
good-for-nothing, sitting here and eating our bread without doing aught
to pay for it! Were ever parents troubled with so worthless a son?
Other folk have bright boys and girls who will grow up to do some good
in the world and be a credit to their parents. But you will always be a
big, overgrown baby for us to take care of. Bah! Karl, we are tired of
seeing you about!”
With the tears streaming down his face poor Karl would shuffle out of
the mean little cottage where they lived, the most unhappy boy in the
whole wide world. There was one place whither Karl loved to go at such
times, the only place where he was sure of finding rest and quiet and a
friend. In a corner of the village was a little wood,--a rare sight in
the Flat Land, where trees grew but sparsely.
Few other persons came here, for the folk of the country cared little
about rest or quiet, and nothing at all for the beauty of nature. They
were quite satisfied with the look of their clean-shaven country,
their smooth lawns and geometrical canals, their straight, shadeless
roads, curbed neatly on either hand. It had never occurred to them to
plant trees for beauty and shade, and for the other good things which
trees offer. The little wood had grown quite by accident, and no one
cared anything about it. But Karl loved the lonely, pretty place, and
especially the great oak which grew in the midst thereof, the only
oak in the whole Flat Land. It was so big, so sturdy, and yet withal
so gentle when it stretched its great limbs protectingly over his
wretchedness, giving the comfort of its shade and coolness to refresh
him in his troubles. It was Karl’s only friend.
A hot, sultry day came upon the Flat Land, and it seemed to be Karl’s
evil day. In the morning a rout of children and dogs chased him through
the village, pelting him with bad eggs and fruit, and with stones,
too. They chased him until the school bell rang, when he escaped; for
Karl did not go to school,--he was too simple. When he returned home,
breathless, bruised, and weary, scarcely able to speak from fright and
exhaustion, his father beat him because he could not tell where he had
been all the morning. Poor Karl! There was no part of the whole town
where he had not been in that dreadful chase. But he had not the words
to explain this to his parents; so his cruel father punished him, and
his mother drove him out without his dinner.
More wretched than ever before, Karl fled to his refuge, the little
wood, and flung himself on the greensward beneath the giant oak tree.
He buried his face in the cool, soft moss, and cried as though his
heart would break.
“Poor fool! Poor fool!” he wailed. “Poor Karl, good for nothing!”
While he lay thus, sobbing aloud and filling the cups of the moss
with his tears, he heard a heavy tread approaching. Glancing up
fearfully,--for he had no hope to meet a friendly face, since none in
all the world had ever smiled upon him,--he saw a Farmer approaching
with a great axe over his shoulder.
“Hullo, there!” cried the Farmer when he spied Karl under the tree.
“You Simpleton, better get up. I am going to cut down that tree which
grows over your head.”
“Cut down my tree!” gasped Karl, and he began to tremble. Was he to
lose his only friend?
“_Your_ tree!” jeered the Farmer. “Poor Fool, I never knew that you
owned anything, even your senses. The tree is mine, with the land on
which it grows and acres on every hand. I am going to cut down the tree
to make firewood for next winter. That is all trees are good for.”
“Oh, do not do that!” begged Karl, spreading out his arms as if to
protect the tree. “I will not let you cut it down!”
“Ho ho!” laughed the Farmer. “How will you prevent it, Simpleton? And
what is the tree to you, anyway?”
“The only big tree there is anywhere!” sobbed Karl. “The only shade;
the only safe, quiet, cool, kind place in the whole world! O Man, do
not cut down the tree! You cannot make another.”
The Farmer had lifted his axe to strike, but now he paused and
rested it on the ground. Karl’s last words had struck him with a
new thought. “The Fool speaks a word of wisdom,” he growled to
himself. “It is easier to cut down a tree like this than to make
another. The acorn which I might plant to-day would become no such
tree in my lifetime--nor in that of my son, or my grandson, or my
great-grandson, for that matter. Fool, I will think it over (the
more fool I, ’tis likely). I will spare _your_ tree--ha ha!--for a
time. I can cut it down whenever I like. But as you say, I cannot soon
grow another. My folly bids yours good-day, Fool.”
[Illustration: KARL AND THE DRYAD]
Shouldering his axe, the Farmer trudged half sulkily away. Then Karl
fell to sobbing again, but this time with joy that his tree was spared.
He flung his arm around the great trunk and pressed his lips against
the rough bark, kissing it again and again. Suddenly he heard a sharp
crack in the oak; another and another, as if the bark were being ripped
away. He started up in a fright and stood back from the tree, wondering
what was happening to his old friend.
Presently a long vertical slit appeared in the side of the tree and
grew gradually wider and wider. A door was opening in the trunk! Karl
stood gazing spell-bound at this amazing sight, when out from the
dark entrance stepped a figure most wonderful to see. It was a lovely
maiden, dressed all in brown,--the color of the tree-bark. About her
head was twined a wreath of green oak leaves and acorns, and in her
hand she carried a wand, made from a branch of the tree. She was a
Dryad, the spirit whose home was the old oak tree; but Karl was too
simple to know that. He merely stood staring at the beautiful stranger,
too much surprised even to close his poor foolish mouth, which hung
wide open.
The Dryad smiled sweetly at the lad and said, “Thanks, kind friend,
for saving my tree. I heard your wise words to the cruel Farmer, and
brave you were to speak them. Now what can I do to make you happy, as
we Dryads love to make happy him who does kindness to our sheltering
trees?”
Poor Karl did not understand how he had saved the tree. He only knew
that for some reason the cruel Farmer had changed his mind. As little
did he understand why the Dryad thanked him. But he heard the kindness
of her voice, and knew she offered aid.
“Oh, can you help me, beautiful Stranger?” he cried, clasping his
hands eagerly and looking at her with tears in his eyes.
“Indeed, I will help you all I can, kind lad,” said the Dryad, waving
her wand and taking a step towards him. “Tell me about your trouble.”
Then Karl told the Dryad all the sorrow of his life,--how he was
foolish and of no use, a burden to his parents and a disgrace to the
town; how all the village, even the little children and the cur-dogs,
hated and despised him; how unhappy and lonesome he was.
“O fair Stranger,” said Karl as he finished the sad little tale, “I am
only a poor simpleton, and I can never do anything good or great. But
if you could only teach me how to do some little thing that will be of
use to the world, so that I shall not always be hated and despised even
by the little children and dogs of the village, I should be so very
happy! Will you do this, dear Tree-Maiden?”
The Dryad looked at him pityingly, and the tears stood in her own brown
eyes when she heard his wish. “Poor boy,” she said, and her voice was
very sweet, “you ask nothing for yourself, neither riches nor happiness
nor even wisdom. You ask only to be taught how your simplicity may be
of some use to the world which has treated you so unkindly. Some would
call it a foolish wish. But I say, O Karl, that it is not foolishness.
Twice to-day you have spoken wisely, lad.”
The Dryad looked up into the tree under which they stood; she looked
down upon the ground; then she glanced around and about, thinking hard
for Karl’s sake. And at last she spoke again.
“Remember the words which you spoke to-day when the Farmer raised his
axe. You told him that he could not make another such tree; and those
words saved this great oak. You were right, Karl. And he was right when
he agreed that the acorn which he might plant to-day would not become
like this king of trees in his lifetime, nor in that of his son, or his
grandson, or his great-grandson. Yet the acorn which you plant will
grow, and its shade, its beauty, its greenness will one day equal
this. Though you may never see it, the world will be better for your
deed, and future generations will bless you for it. This shall be your
task, Karl, to fare forth upon a lifelong pilgrimage and plant as you
go the blessed trees which will shelter the many people who are to come
after you. Thus the Flat Land will become famous for all time as the
place of happy wayfaring.”
Now poor Karl understood not one word of all this which the Dryad had
so prettily spoken, save that he was to go away. But this thought he
seized eagerly.
“I am to go away!” he cried. “When, dear Maiden, and where?”
“You must go to-night,” answered the Dryad, waving her wand. “See,
already the shadows are falling. You must not be missed nor sought for
this night. You must take with you only this,--a sack of acorns upon
your shoulders. See where they lie all about us under the tree, ready
for you to gather! And look! I will take this green mantle which I wear
and make of it a sack to hold your burden. Take it, Karl, and fill it
thus with the gift of your old friend, the oak.”
Karl did as she showed him, and presently he had the long, soft sack
filled with brown acorns. Then the Dryad gave him a lesson in planting.
She showed him how to dig a little hole for each acorn and cover
it with mould; and though Karl was so simple he learned the lesson
readily, for he had a loving teacher. Then the Dryad told him how he
must walk a hundred paces from the planting of one acorn before he
turned earth to cover the next.
“Now, Karl, you shall go forth,” she said, “from village to village
wherever your thought may lead,--for it does not matter,--planting
acorns on either side of the way. And if any one asks you why you do
this, do you tell him the story of this day; and I warrant you will
need no other pence to pay for food or a bed whenever you need them. Do
not forget this story, Karl. Do not forget.”
“I am a simpleton,” said Karl humbly, “yet I shall never forget this
day’s happenings, nor your words to me. But shall I indeed be doing
something for the world’s good? I do not see how that can be.”
“Trust me, Karl,” said the Dryad kindly. “Indeed and indeed, you will
be doing much, I promise you,--more than many men who call themselves
wise. But see, already the night is falling. It is time that you were
starting upon your journey.”
Thereupon she helped him to place the stout sack of acorns upon his
shoulders, and with a wave of the wand started him forth upon his
pilgrimage. Smiling with joy to think that at last he was about to be
of some use in the world, Karl bent his long frame under the heavy
burden, and trudged out of the little wood. When he reached the
highroad, he turned to wave a last farewell to the Dryad. But already
she had retreated into her tree-cell, closing the door behind her so
tightly that one would never know where it opened. It was to his friend
the great oak, alone, that Karl bade his last good-by.
Thus Karl began his pilgrimage with the green sack of acorns on his
back, and with neither penny nor crust in his pocket. He began his
pilgrimage at dusk, when every one was indoors at the evening meal; so
no one thought of him, or spied his doings. With great glee the simple
fellow planted his first acorn in the heart of the village, just within
sight of the parent oak. So long as light lasted he trudged on with a
happier heart than he had ever known. He was being of some use to the
world! He did not understand how, but he believed the gentle Dryad’s
promise. At every hundred paces he planted an acorn, and he was so busy
counting his steps between whiles that he forgot all his troubles. And
this, too, the wise Dryad had foreseen.
At last, when the way had grown so dim that Karl could barely see to
dig earth for the last planting, a wayfarer accosted him.
“What ho, Stranger! What are you doing there?” cried this man.
“I am planting an acorn,” said Karl simply.
“Ho ho! what an idea!” cried the fellow with a guffaw. “You’ll never
live to enjoy the oak that grows from that acorn. Why do you take so
much trouble for nothing, my funny fellow?”
Then Karl told him the whole story, as the Dryad had bade him do. And
when he paused at the end, the man was silent for a little time.
“Poor fellow!” he said at last. “Simple, simple! What a story made of
fool’s fancies! An oak tree--a maiden coming out of it--acorns to be
planted along the road for shade and rest! Yet--there is something in
that last thought. It might not be a bad thing to have trees along
our highways, though I never before heard of such a thing. Whew! I
know I should have been glad to-day for the shade of a tree when I ate
my luncheon in the burning sun.--Have you supped? Where do you lodge
to-night, lad?”
Karl dropped his foolish mouth and said blankly that he did not know.
In truth, he had never thought of the matter until that minute. But the
stranger clapped him on the shoulder and said,--
“Come home with me and I will give you a bed and a sup. Your wonderful
story deserves so much reward.”
So Karl fared well that night, and on the morrow once more started
happily forth upon his mission. Thus indeed he fared wherever he went.
At first folk laughed at the story which he told. But when they came
to think it over, they found it not so ridiculous. Looking at the
poor fool’s eager face and watching his tireless labor for the good
of people whom he would never see, their hearts smote them for their
own selfishness, and they were ashamed. They treated him well. Karl
never lacked for a meal or a bed; the telling of his story always
earned either. Yet he never expected this reward, but was continually
wondering why folk were so good to him. He thanked them humbly for
their charity, and when he was refreshed, went forth again upon his
pilgrimage with no care for the morrow or for the next meal. Karl was
indeed a simpleton.
The days and the weeks and the years went by, and Karl still wandered,
planting the acorns as he went. He never retraced his steps, but
went on and on, down new roads, new avenues, new boulevards, into new
countries. He never was curious to see how his work was faring. He was
too simple to think of that. He had been told what he must do in order
to be useful in the world; that was enough. The Power that watches over
little acorns and great oaks, over simpletons and wise men, would take
care of the work which Karl had begun.
Mile after mile he traversed, country after country he visited; the
years passed over his head, silvering his hair and bending still more
his tall frame. As Karl grew older the burden on his shoulders became
lighter to carry; but very gradually. The sack made from the Dryad’s
mantle must have had magic woven in its tissue. For that first stock of
acorns from the old oak tree lasted throughout the entire pilgrimage,
during the whole of Karl’s life, so that he had no need to return to
the unfriendly village for a fresh supply. On and on he went, and
behind him for miles and miles through the countries and the years
stretched rows of little oak saplings, of various heights and sizes,
and full of promise,--the beginning of a wonderful arched avenue.
For after he had passed out of sight, the people of every village,
remembering his strange words and his wild story, began to think of him
as a holy man, and to look upon the acorns which he had planted as holy
things. So the sprouts were cherished carefully and more carefully as
the years went by.
Now at last, after many years, Karl was grown old and feeble, and the
acorns were few in the bottom of the Dryad’s green sack; and he knew
that his pilgrimage was almost over. He was many, many miles from home,
and for the first time he thought of returning, longing for the Tree,
his friend. He was now bowed and white-haired. A snowy beard descended
to his waist; his garments were in rags and his shoes were mere strips
of leather bound around his bare feet. But he was very happy, for he
knew his work was done.
In a little village of the far South country he planted the last
acorn, and sank upon the spot, unable to go any farther. The towns-folk
gathered around him, saying, “Who is this? What holy man is this?”
For his face was indeed that of a blessed saint. Then once more, for
the last time, he told his story. He told it in a faint and faltering
voice, and it was so sad, so sweet, that every one wept to hear it, and
marveled greatly, saying,--
“Surely, he is indeed a holy man! See, the green wonder-sack is empty.
This is the end of his pilgrimage. Our village is blest and shall be
famous as the end of his pilgrimage. We will set up a shrine in his
honor where the last acorn is planted. But first we must take him home.”
“Yes, take me home!” said Karl, who understood only this word of all
the praise they gave him.
They laid him on the green mantle and started gently to carry him where
he would be. He could not tell them the name of the place, but they
traced the way by the acorns which he had planted and which had sprung
up in his honor. As they went from village to village, folk came out
who remembered the holy pilgrim who had passed erewhile, telling
his quaint story; and they claimed a share in bearing the blessed
burden. So that poor Karl had a continually growing company of people
ministering to his wants and doing him the kindnesses of love. But he
did not know why, thinking only that the world was grown wondrously
kind since the days of his boyhood. As they passed on, the wonder grew
at the length of his pilgrimage and the extent of Karl’s work. For the
journey was not a matter of days but of months, even at the steady pace
they held. And as they measured back mile after mile, the planting of
Karl became still more wonderful to see. From little sprouts the acorns
had now grown tiny treelets. Further on the saplings were waist-high,
shoulder high, above the heads of the tallest. In lands where he had
passed years before grew rows of tall, beautiful oaks on either side
of the road. But it was when the goodly company entered at last the
Flat Land itself that they saw the trees become so sturdy and so
broad that already it was a fair avenue down which Karl was borne.
It was many, many years since he had passed that way. He himself was
forgotten, but there remained the tradition of a simple lad who had
once gone by, planting the blessed oaks which were now the pride of the
land. And his own countrymen joined the company in greater numbers than
any heretofore. For now the wisdom of the planting began to be seen.
The trees were so tall and so broad-limbed that already they cast a
grateful shade, under which the pilgrims rested at every stage. Men,
women, and children, even the animals whom they passed, taking shelter
from the summer heat under these same trees, blessed the wisdom which
had done this thing. But Karl knew nothing of all this. He only knew
that he was going home; and he slept, being very weary.
At last they came to the village where Karl was born; but he did not
know it for such, he was so simple. Nor did the people who flocked to
praise him remember Karl, he was so changed. They only knew him for the
unnamed benefactor and friend who had made their town the fairest and
most famous in the whole land. Among them were the very children, now
grown old like him, who had teased and tormented him that woeful day.
But now they crowded around the green litter as it was borne along,
seeking to kiss the hand of the wise man who had given them shade and
shelter on their weary way to and from the market. The company of
pilgrims bore Karl past and under the trees which had sprung up to mark
his passing from the town. They came to the last tree, the first which
Karl had planted in the heart of the village on that first day, and
here they paused, troubled. For they said,--
“The avenue ends here. Whither shall we now carry the holy man, and
what would he have us do? For he has spoken no word since we began the
journey.”
But under this last tree Karl opened his eyes, and raising himself
on his litter stretched out his arms to the East. Gazing whither he
pointed, the company saw a little wood, and rising out of it a single
giant oak, greater than all the others which Karl had planted,--greater
than any which those men had seen.
“There, there!” cried Karl, with joy in his voice. “Take me there!
Home, home!”
Wondering, they bore him to the great oak and laid him on the
greensward beneath the tree. Then a marvelous thing happened. In the
sight of all the people a little door opened in the side of the oak,
and out stepped a maiden dressed all in brown, with a girdle of green
and with a crown of oak leaves on her head. She bore a branch of the
tree in her hand, which she waved gently as she stepped towards Karl.