winter was a very bad time for me, and I really had no money at all to
buy bread with. So I first sold the silver buttons off my Sunday coat,
and then I sold my silver chain, and then I sold my big pipe, and at last
I sold my wheelbarrow. But I am going to buy them all back again now.’
“‘Hans,’ said the Miller, ‘I will give you my wheelbarrow. It is not in
very good repair; indeed, one side is gone, and there is something wrong
with the wheel-spokes; but in spite of that I will give it to you. I
know it is very generous of me, and a great many people would think me
extremely foolish for parting with it, but I am not like the rest of the
world. I think that generosity is the essence of friendship, and,
besides, I have got a new wheelbarrow for myself. Yes, you may set your
mind at ease, I will give you my wheelbarrow.’
“‘Well, really, that is generous of you,’ said little Hans, and his funny
round face glowed all over with pleasure. ‘I can easily put it in
repair, as I have a plank of wood in the house.’
“‘A plank of wood!’ said the Miller; ‘why, that is just what I want for
the roof of my barn. There is a very large hole in it, and the corn will
all get damp if I don’t stop it up. How lucky you mentioned it! It is
quite remarkable how one good action always breeds another. I have given
you my wheelbarrow, and now you are going to give me your plank. Of
course, the wheelbarrow is worth far more than the plank, but true,
friendship never notices things like that. Pray get it at once, and I
will set to work at my barn this very day.’
“‘Certainly,’ cried little Hans, and he ran into the shed and dragged the
plank out.
“‘It is not a very big plank,’ said the Miller, looking at it, ‘and I am
afraid that after I have mended my barn-roof there won’t be any left for
you to mend the wheelbarrow with; but, of course, that is not my fault.
And now, as I have given you my wheelbarrow, I am sure you would like to
give me some flowers in return. Here is the basket, and mind you fill it
quite full.’
“‘Quite full?’ said little Hans, rather sorrowfully, for it was really a
very big basket, and he knew that if he filled it he would have no
flowers left for the market and he was very anxious to get his silver
buttons back.
“‘Well, really,’ answered the Miller, ‘as I have given you my
wheelbarrow, I don’t think that it is much to ask you for a few flowers.
I may be wrong, but I should have thought that friendship, true
friendship, was quite free from selfishness of any kind.’
“‘My dear friend, my best friend,’ cried little Hans, ‘you are welcome to
all the flowers in my garden. I would much sooner have your good opinion
than my silver buttons, any day’; and he ran and plucked all his pretty
primroses, and filled the Miller’s basket.
“‘Good-bye, little Hans,’ said the Miller, as he went up the hill with
the plank on his shoulder, and the big basket in his hand.
“‘Good-bye,’ said little Hans, and he began to dig away quite merrily, he
was so pleased about the wheelbarrow.
“The next day he was nailing up some honeysuckle against the porch, when
he heard the Miller’s voice calling to him from the road. So he jumped
off the ladder, and ran down the garden, and looked over the wall.
“There was the Miller with a large sack of flour on his back.
“‘Dear little Hans,’ said the Miller, ‘would you mind carrying this sack
of flour for me to market?’
“‘Oh, I am so sorry,’ said Hans, ‘but I am really very busy to-day. I
have got all my creepers to nail up, and all my flowers to water, and all
my grass to roll.’
“‘Well, really,’ said the Miller, ‘I think that, considering that I am
going to give you my wheelbarrow, it is rather unfriendly of you to
refuse.’
“‘Oh, don’t say that,’ cried little Hans, ‘I wouldn’t be unfriendly for
the whole world’; and he ran in for his cap, and trudged off with the big
sack on his shoulders.
“It was a very hot day, and the road was terribly dusty, and before Hans
had reached the sixth milestone he was so tired that he had to sit down
and rest. However, he went on bravely, and as last he reached the
market. After he had waited there some time, he sold the sack of flour
for a very good price, and then he returned home at once, for he was
afraid that if he stopped too late he might meet some robbers on the way.
“‘It has certainly been a hard day,’ said little Hans to himself as he
was going to bed, ‘but I am glad I did not refuse the Miller, for he is
my best friend, and, besides, he is going to give me his wheelbarrow.’
“Early the next morning the Miller came down to get the money for his
sack of flour, but little Hans was so tired that he was still in bed.
“‘Upon my word,’ said the Miller, ‘you are very lazy. Really,
considering that I am going to give you my wheelbarrow, I think you might
work harder. Idleness is a great sin, and I certainly don’t like any of
my friends to be idle or sluggish. You must not mind my speaking quite
plainly to you. Of course I should not dream of doing so if I were not
your friend. But what is the good of friendship if one cannot say
exactly what one means? Anybody can say charming things and try to
please and to flatter, but a true friend always says unpleasant things,
and does not mind giving pain. Indeed, if he is a really true friend he
prefers it, for he knows that then he is doing good.’
“‘I am very sorry,’ said little Hans, rubbing his eyes and pulling off
his night-cap, ‘but I was so tired that I thought I would lie in bed for
a little time, and listen to the birds singing. Do you know that I
always work better after hearing the birds sing?’
“‘Well, I am glad of that,’ said the Miller, clapping little Hans on the
back, ‘for I want you to come up to the mill as soon as you are dressed,
and mend my barn-roof for me.’
“Poor little Hans was very anxious to go and work in his garden, for his
flowers had not been watered for two days, but he did not like to refuse
the Miller, as he was such a good friend to him.
“‘Do you think it would be unfriendly of me if I said I was busy?’ he
inquired in a shy and timid voice.
“‘Well, really,’ answered the Miller, ‘I do not think it is much to ask
of you, considering that I am going to give you my wheelbarrow; but of
course if you refuse I will go and do it myself.’
“‘Oh! on no account,’ cried little Hans and he jumped out of bed, and
dressed himself, and went up to the barn.
“He worked there all day long, till sunset, and at sunset the Miller came
to see how he was getting on.
“‘Have you mended the hole in the roof yet, little Hans?’ cried the
Miller in a cheery voice.
“‘It is quite mended,’ answered little Hans, coming down the ladder.
“‘Ah!’ said the Miller, ‘there is no work so delightful as the work one
does for others.’
“‘It is certainly a great privilege to hear you talk,’ answered little
Hans, sitting down, and wiping his forehead, ‘a very great privilege.
But I am afraid I shall never have such beautiful ideas as you have.’
“‘Oh! they will come to you,’ said the Miller, ‘but you must take more
pains. At present you have only the practice of friendship; some day you
will have the theory also.’
“‘Do you really think I shall?’ asked little Hans.
“‘I have no doubt of it,’ answered the Miller, ‘but now that you have
mended the roof, you had better go home and rest, for I want you to drive
my sheep to the mountain to-morrow.’
“Poor little Hans was afraid to say anything to this, and early the next
morning the Miller brought his sheep round to the cottage, and Hans
started off with them to the mountain. It took him the whole day to get
there and back; and when he returned he was so tired that he went off to
sleep in his chair, and did not wake up till it was broad daylight.
“‘What a delightful time I shall have in my garden,’ he said, and he went
to work at once.
“But somehow he was never able to look after his flowers at all, for his
friend the Miller was always coming round and sending him off on long
errands, or getting him to help at the mill. Little Hans was very much
distressed at times, as he was afraid his flowers would think he had
forgotten them, but he consoled himself by the reflection that the Miller
was his best friend. ‘Besides,’ he used to say, ‘he is going to give me
his wheelbarrow, and that is an act of pure generosity.’
“So little Hans worked away for the Miller, and the Miller said all kinds
of beautiful things about friendship, which Hans took down in a
note-book, and used to read over at night, for he was a very good
scholar.
“Now it happened that one evening little Hans was sitting by his fireside
when a loud rap came at the door. It was a very wild night, and the wind
was blowing and roaring round the house so terribly that at first he
thought it was merely the storm. But a second rap came, and then a
third, louder than any of the others.
“‘It is some poor traveller,’ said little Hans to himself, and he ran to
the door.
“There stood the Miller with a lantern in one hand and a big stick in the
other.
“‘Dear little Hans,’ cried the Miller, ‘I am in great trouble. My little
boy has fallen off a ladder and hurt himself, and I am going for the
Doctor. But he lives so far away, and it is such a bad night, that it
has just occurred to me that it would be much better if you went instead
of me. You know I am going to give you my wheelbarrow, and so, it is
only fair that you should do something for me in return.’
“‘Certainly,’ cried little Hans, ‘I take it quite as a compliment your
coming to me, and I will start off at once. But you must lend me your
lantern, as the night is so dark that I am afraid I might fall into the
ditch.’
“‘I am very sorry,’ answered the Miller, ‘but it is my new lantern, and
it would be a great loss to me if anything happened to it.’
“‘Well, never mind, I will do without it,’ cried little Hans, and he took
down his great fur coat, and his warm scarlet cap, and tied a muffler
round his throat, and started off.
“What a dreadful storm it was! The night was so black that little Hans
could hardly see, and the wind was so strong that he could scarcely
stand. However, he was very courageous, and after he had been walking
about three hours, he arrived at the Doctor’s house, and knocked at the
door.
“‘Who is there?’ cried the Doctor, putting his head out of his bedroom
window.
“‘Little Hans, Doctor.’
“’What do you want, little Hans?’
“‘The Miller’s son has fallen from a ladder, and has hurt himself, and
the Miller wants you to come at once.’
“‘All right!’ said the Doctor; and he ordered his horse, and his big
boots, and his lantern, and came downstairs, and rode off in the
direction of the Miller’s house, little Hans trudging behind him.
“But the storm grew worse and worse, and the rain fell in torrents, and
little Hans could not see where he was going, or keep up with the horse.
At last he lost his way, and wandered off on the moor, which was a very
dangerous place, as it was full of deep holes, and there poor little Hans
was drowned. His body was found the next day by some goatherds, floating
in a great pool of water, and was brought back by them to the cottage.
“Everybody went to little Hans’ funeral, as he was so popular, and the
Miller was the chief mourner.
“‘As I was his best friend,’ said the Miller, ‘it is only fair that I
should have the best place’; so he walked at the head of the procession
in a long black cloak, and every now and then he wiped his eyes with a
big pocket-handkerchief.
“‘Little Hans is certainly a great loss to every one,’ said the
Blacksmith, when the funeral was over, and they were all seated
comfortably in the inn, drinking spiced wine and eating sweet cakes.
“‘A great loss to me at any rate,’ answered the Miller; ‘why, I had as
good as given him my wheelbarrow, and now I really don’t know what to do
with it. It is very much in my way at home, and it is in such bad repair
that I could not get anything for it if I sold it. I will certainly take
care not to give away anything again. One always suffers for being
generous.’”
“Well?” said the Water-rat, after a long pause.
“Well, that is the end,” said the Linnet.
“But what became of the Miller?” asked the Water-rat.
“Oh! I really don’t know,” replied the Linnet; “and I am sure that I
don’t care.”
“It is quite evident then that you have no sympathy in your nature,” said
the Water-rat.
“I am afraid you don’t quite see the moral of the story,” remarked the
Linnet.
“The what?” screamed the Water-rat.
“The moral.”
“Do you mean to say that the story has a moral?”
“Certainly,” said the Linnet.
“Well, really,” said the Water-rat, in a very angry manner, “I think you
should have told me that before you began. If you had done so, I
certainly would not have listened to you; in fact, I should have said
‘Pooh,’ like the critic. However, I can say it now”; so he shouted out
“Pooh” at the top of his voice, gave a whisk with his tail, and went back
into his hole.
“And how do you like the Water-rat?” asked the Duck, who came paddling up
some minutes afterwards. “He has a great many good points, but for my
own part I have a mother’s feelings, and I can never look at a confirmed
bachelor without the tears coming into my eyes.”
“I am rather afraid that I have annoyed him,” answered the Linnet. “The
fact is, that I told him a story with a moral.”
“Ah! that is always a very dangerous thing to do,” said the Duck.
And I quite agree with her.
[Picture: Decorative graphic of windmill and overturned barrow]
The Remarkable Rocket.
[Picture: The Remarkable Rocket]
THE King’s son was going to be married, so there were general rejoicings.
He had waited a whole year for his bride, and at last she had arrived.
She was a Russian Princess, and had driven all the way from Finland in a
sledge drawn by six reindeer. The sledge was shaped like a great golden
swan, and between the swan’s wings lay the little Princess herself. Her
long ermine-cloak reached right down to her feet, on her head was a tiny
cap of silver tissue, and she was as pale as the Snow Palace in which she
had always lived. So pale was she that as she drove through the streets
all the people wondered. “She is like a white rose!” they cried, and
they threw down flowers on her from the balconies.
[Picture: Decorative graphic of young man kissing the princess’ hand]
At the gate of the Castle the Prince was waiting to receive her. He had
dreamy violet eyes, and his hair was like fine gold. When he saw her he
sank upon one knee, and kissed her hand.
“Your picture was beautiful,” he murmured, “but you are more beautiful
than your picture”; and the little Princess blushed.
“She was like a white rose before,” said a young Page to his neighbour,
“but she is like a red rose now”; and the whole Court was delighted.
For the next three days everybody went about saying, “White rose, Red
rose, Red rose, White rose”; and the King gave orders that the Page’s
salary was to be doubled. As he received no salary at all this was not
of much use to him, but it was considered a great honour, and was duly
published in the Court Gazette.
When the three days were over the marriage was celebrated. It was a
magnificent ceremony, and the bride and bridegroom walked hand in hand
under a canopy of purple velvet embroidered with little pearls. Then
there was a State Banquet, which lasted for five hours. The Prince and
Princess sat at the top of the Great Hall and drank out of a cup of clear
crystal. Only true lovers could drink out of this cup, for if false lips
touched it, it grew grey and dull and cloudy.
“It’s quite clear that they love each other,” said the little Page, “as
clear as crystal!” and the King doubled his salary a second time. “What
an honour!” cried all the courtiers.
After the banquet there was to be a Ball. The bride and bridegroom were
to dance the Rose-dance together, and the King had promised to play the
flute. He played very badly, but no one had ever dared to tell him so,
because he was the King. Indeed, he knew only two airs, and was never
quite certain which one he was playing; but it made no matter, for,
whatever he did, everybody cried out, “Charming! charming!”
The last item on the programme was a grand display of fireworks, to be
let off exactly at midnight. The little Princess had never seen a
firework in her life, so the King had given orders that the Royal
Pyrotechnist should be in attendance on the day of her marriage.
“What are fireworks like?” she had asked the Prince, one morning, as she
was walking on the terrace.
“They are like the Aurora Borealis,” said the King, who always answered
questions that were addressed to other people, “only much more natural.
I prefer them to stars myself, as you always know when they are going to
appear, and they are as delightful as my own flute-playing. You must
certainly see them.”
So at the end of the King’s garden a great stand had been set up, and as
soon as the Royal Pyrotechnist had put everything in its proper place,
the fireworks began to talk to each other.
“The world is certainly very beautiful,” cried a little Squib. “Just
look at those yellow tulips. Why! if they were real crackers they could
not be lovelier. I am very glad I have travelled. Travel improves the
mind wonderfully, and does away with all one’s prejudices.”
“The King’s garden is not the world, you foolish squib,” said a big Roman
Candle; “the world is an enormous place, and it would take you three days
to see it thoroughly.”
“Any place you love is the world to you,” exclaimed a pensive Catherine
Wheel, who had been attached to an old deal box in early life, and prided
herself on her broken heart; “but love is not fashionable any more, the
poets have killed it. They wrote so much about it that nobody believed
them, and I am not surprised. True love suffers, and is silent. I
remember myself once—But it is no matter now. Romance is a thing of the
past.”
“Nonsense!” said the Roman Candle, “Romance never dies. It is like the
moon, and lives for ever. The bride and bridegroom, for instance, love
each other very dearly. I heard all about them this morning from a
brown-paper cartridge, who happened to be staying in the same drawer as
myself, and knew the latest Court news.”
But the Catherine Wheel shook her head. “Romance is dead, Romance is
dead, Romance is dead,” she murmured. She was one of those people who
think that, if you say the same thing over and over a great many times,
it becomes true in the end.
Suddenly, a sharp, dry cough was heard, and they all looked round.
It came from a tall, supercilious-looking Rocket, who was tied to the end
of a long stick. He always coughed before he made any observation, so as
to attract attention.
“Ahem! ahem!” he said, and everybody listened except the poor Catherine
Wheel, who was still shaking her head, and murmuring, “Romance is dead.”
“Order! order!” cried out a Cracker. He was something of a politician,
and had always taken a prominent part in the local elections, so he knew
the proper Parliamentary expressions to use.
“Quite dead,” whispered the Catherine Wheel, and she went off to sleep.
As soon as there was perfect silence, the Rocket coughed a third time and
began. He spoke with a very slow, distinct voice, as if he was dictating
his memoirs, and always looked over the shoulder of the person to whom he
was talking. In fact, he had a most distinguished manner.
“How fortunate it is for the King’s son,” he remarked, “that he is to be
married on the very day on which I am to be let off. Really, if it had
been arranged beforehand, it could not have turned out better for him;
but, Princes are always lucky.”
“Dear me!” said the little Squib, “I thought it was quite the other way,
and that we were to be let off in the Prince’s honour.”
“It may be so with you,” he answered; “indeed, I have no doubt that it
is, but with me it is different. I am a very remarkable Rocket, and come
of remarkable parents. My mother was the most celebrated Catherine Wheel
of her day, and was renowned for her graceful dancing. When she made her
great public appearance she spun round nineteen times before she went
out, and each time that she did so she threw into the air seven pink
stars. She was three feet and a half in diameter, and made of the very
best gunpowder. My father was a Rocket like myself, and of French
extraction. He flew so high that the people were afraid that he would
never come down again. He did, though, for he was of a kindly
disposition, and he made a most brilliant descent in a shower of golden
rain. The newspapers wrote about his performance in very flattering
terms. Indeed, the Court Gazette called him a triumph of Pylotechnic
art.”
“Pyrotechnic, Pyrotechnic, you mean,” said a Bengal Light; “I know it is
Pyrotechnic, for I saw it written on my own canister.”
“Well, I said Pylotechnic,” answered the Rocket, in a severe tone of
voice, and the Bengal Light felt so crushed that he began at once to
bully the little squibs, in order to show that he was still a person of
some importance.
“I was saying,” continued the Rocket, “I was saying—What was I saying?”
“You were talking about yourself,” replied the Roman Candle.
“Of course; I knew I was discussing some interesting subject when I was
so rudely interrupted. I hate rudeness and bad manners of every kind,
for I am extremely sensitive. No one in the whole world is so sensitive
as I am, I am quite sure of that.”
“What is a sensitive person?” said the Cracker to the Roman Candle.
“A person who, because he has corns himself, always treads on other
people’s toes,” answered the Roman Candle in a low whisper; and the
Cracker nearly exploded with laughter.
“Pray, what are you laughing at?” inquired the Rocket; “I am not
laughing.”
“I am laughing because I am happy,” replied the Cracker.
“That is a very selfish reason,” said the Rocket angrily. “What right
have you to be happy? You should be thinking about others. In fact, you
should be thinking about me. I am always thinking about myself, and I
expect everybody else to do the same. That is what is called sympathy.
It is a beautiful virtue, and I possess it in a high degree. Suppose,
for instance, anything happened to me to-night, what a misfortune that
would be for every one! The Prince and Princess would never be happy
again, their whole married life would be spoiled; and as for the King, I
know he would not get over it. Really, when I begin to reflect on the
importance of my position, I am almost moved to tears.”
“If you want to give pleasure to others,” cried the Roman Candle, “you
had better keep yourself dry.”
“Certainly,” exclaimed the Bengal Light, who was now in better spirits;
“that is only common sense.”
“Common sense, indeed!” said the Rocket indignantly; “you forget that I
am very uncommon, and very remarkable. Why, anybody can have common
sense, provided that they have no imagination. But I have imagination,
for I never think of things as they really are; I always think of them as
being quite different. As for keeping myself dry, there is evidently no
one here who can at all appreciate an emotional nature. Fortunately for
myself, I don’t care. The only thing that sustains one through life is
the consciousness of the immense inferiority of everybody else, and this
is a feeling that I have always cultivated. But none of you have any
hearts. Here you are laughing and making merry just as if the Prince and
Princess had not just been married.”
“Well, really,” exclaimed a small Fire-balloon, “why not? It is a most
joyful occasion, and when I soar up into the air I intend to tell the
stars all about it. You will see them twinkle when I talk to them about
the pretty bride.”
“Ah! what a trivial view of life!” said the Rocket; “but it is only what
I expected. There is nothing in you; you are hollow and empty. Why,
perhaps the Prince and Princess may go to live in a country where there
is a deep river, and perhaps they may have one only son, a little
fair-haired boy with violet eyes like the Prince himself; and perhaps
some day he may go out to walk with his nurse; and perhaps the nurse may
go to sleep under a great elder-tree; and perhaps the little boy may fall
into the deep river and be drowned. What a terrible misfortune! Poor
people, to lose their only son! It is really too dreadful! I shall
never get over it.”
“But they have not lost their only son,” said the Roman Candle; “no
misfortune has happened to them at all.”
“I never said that they had,” replied the Rocket; “I said that they
might. If they had lost their only son there would be no use in saying
anything more about the matter. I hate people who cry over spilt milk.
But when I think that they might lose their only son, I certainly am very
much affected.”
“You certainly are!” cried the Bengal Light. “In fact, you are the most
affected person I ever met.”
“You are the rudest person I ever met,” said the Rocket, “and you cannot
understand my friendship for the Prince.”