the fat, and the other all the lean. The next people were odder still;
for the man looked rather guilty, and seemed to be hiding a three-peck
measure under his chair, while he waited for his wife to bring on some
cold barley-pudding, which, to my surprise, she was frying herself. I
also saw a queer moonstruck-looking man inquiring the way to Norridge;
and another man making wry faces over some plum-pudding, with which he
had burnt his mouth, because his friend came down too soon.
I ordered pease-porridge hot, and they brought it cold; but I didn't
wait for any thing else, being in a hurry to see all there was to be
seen on this strange island. Feeling refreshed, I strolled on, passing a
jolly old gentleman smoking and drinking, while three fiddlers played
before him. As I turned into a road that led toward a hill, a little
boy, riding a dapple-gray pony, and an old lady on a white horse, with
bells ringing somewhere, trotted by me, followed by a little girl, who
wished to know where she could buy a penny bun. I told her the best were
at Newmarch's, in Bedford Street, and she ran on, much pleased; but I'm
afraid she never found that best of bake-shops. I was going quietly
along, when the sound of another horse coming made me look round; and
there I saw a dreadful sight,--a wild horse, tearing over the ground,
with fiery eyes and streaming tail. On his back sat a crazy man, beating
him with a broom; a crazy woman was behind him, with her bonnet on wrong
side before, holding one crazy child in her lap, while another stood on
the horse; a third was hanging on by one foot, and all were howling at
the top of their voices as they rushed by. I scrambled over the wall to
get out of the way, and there I saw more curious sights. Two blind men
were sitting on the grass, trying to see two lame men who were hobbling
along as hard as they could; and, near by, a bull was fighting a bee in
the most violent manner. This rather alarmed me; and I scrambled back
into the road again, just as a very fine lady jumped over a
barberry-bush near by, and a gentleman went flying after, with a ring in
one hand and a stick in the other.
"What very odd people they have here!" I thought. Close by was a tidy
little house under the hill, and in it a tidy little woman who sold
things to eat. Being rather hungry, in spite of my porridge, I bought a
baked apple and a cranberry-pie; for she said they were good, and I
found she told the truth. As I sat eating my pie, some dogs began to
bark; and by came a troop of beggars, some in rags, and some in old
velvet gowns. A drunken grenadier was with them, who wanted a pot of
beer; but as he had no money, the old woman sent him about his business.
On my way up the hill, I saw a little boy crying over a dead pig, and
his sister, who seemed to be dead also. I asked his name, and he sobbed
out, "Johnny Pringle, ma'am;" and went on crying so hard I could do
nothing to comfort him. While I stood talking to him, a sudden gust of
wind blew up the road, and down came the bough of a tree; and, to my
surprise, a cradle with a baby in it also. The baby screamed dreadfully,
and I didn't know how to quiet it; so I ran back to the old woman, and
left it with her, asking if that was the way babies were taken care of
there.
"Bless you, my dear! its ma is making patty-cakes; and put it up there
to be out of the way of Tom Tinker's dog. I'll soon hush it up," said
the old woman; and, trotting it on her knee, she began to sing:
"Hey! my kitten, my kitten,
Hey! my kitten, my deary."
Feeling that the child was in good hands, I hurried away, for I saw
something was going on upon the hill-top. When I got to the hill-top, I
was shocked to find some people tossing an old woman in a blanket. I
begged them to stop; but one of the men, who, I found, was a Welchman,
by the name of Taffy, told me the old lady liked it.
"But why does she like it?" I asked in great surprise.
"Tom, the piper's son, will tell you: it's my turn to toss now," said
the man.
"Why, you see, ma'am," said Tom, "she is one of those dreadfully nice
old women, who are always fussing and scrubbing, and worrying people to
death, with everlastingly cleaning house. Now and then we get so tired
out with her that we propose to her to clean the sky itself. She likes
that; and, as this is the only way we can get her up, we toss till she
sticks somewhere, and then leave her to sweep cobwebs till she is ready
to come back and behave herself."
"Well, that is the oddest thing I ever heard. I know just such an old
lady, and when I go home I'll try your plan. It seems to me that you
have a great many queer old ladies on this island," I said to another
man, whom they called Peter, and who stood eating pumpkin all the time.
"Well, we do have rather a nice collection; but you haven't seen the
best of all. We expect her every minute; and Margery Daw is to let us
know the minute she lights on the island," replied Peter, with his mouth
full.
"Lights?" said I, "you speak as if she flew."
"She rides on a bird. Hurrah! the old sweeper has lit. Now the cobwebs
will fly. Don't hurry back," shouted the man; and a faint, far-off voice
answered, "I shall be back again by and by."
The people folded up the blanket, looking much relieved; and I was
examining a very odd house which was built by an ancient king called
Boggen, when Margery Daw, a dirty little girl, came up the hill,
screaming, at the top of her voice:
"She's come! she's come!"
Every one looked up; and I saw a large white bird slowly flying over the
island. On its back sat the nicest old woman that ever was seen: all the
others were nothing compared to her. She had a pointed hat on over her
cap, a red cloak, high-heeled shoes, and a crutch in her hand. She
smiled and nodded as the bird approached; and every one ran and nodded,
and screamed, "Welcome! welcome, mother!"
As soon as she touched the ground, she was so surrounded that I could
only see the top of her hat; for hundreds and hundreds of little
children suddenly appeared, like a great flock of birds,--rosy, happy,
pretty children; but all looked unreal, and among them I saw some who
looked like little people I had known long ago.
"Who are they?" I asked of a bonny lass, who was sitting on a cushion,
eating strawberries and cream.
"They are the phantoms of all the little people who ever read and loved
our mother's songs," said the maid.
"What did she write?" I asked, feeling very queer, and as if I was going
to remember something.
"Songs that are immortal; and you have them in your hand," replied the
bonny maid, smiling at my stupidity.
I looked; and there, on the cover of the book I had been reading so
busily when the tide carried me away, I saw the words "Mother Goose's
Melodies." I was so delighted that I had seen her I gave a shout, and
tried to get near enough to hug and kiss the dear old soul, as the swarm
of children were doing; but my cry woke me, and I was _so_ sorry to find
it all a dream!
XI.
FANCY'S FRIEND.
It was a wagon, shaped like a great square basket, on low wheels, and
drawn by a stout donkey. There was one seat, on which Miss Fairbairn the
governess sat; and all round her, leaning over the edge of the basket,
were children, with little wooden shovels and baskets in their hands,
going down to play on the beach. Away they went, over the common,
through the stony lane, out upon the wide, smooth sands. All the
children but one immediately fell to digging holes, and making ponds,
castles, or forts. They did this every day, and were never tired of it;
but little Fancy made new games for herself, and seldom dug in the sand.
She had a garden of sea-weed, which the waves watered every day: she had
a palace of pretty shells, where she kept all sorts of little
water-creatures as fairy tenants; she had friends and playmates among
the gulls and peeps, and learned curious things by watching crabs,
horse-shoes, and jelly-fishes; and every day she looked for a mermaid.
It was of no use to tell her that there were no mermaids: Fancy firmly
believed in them, and was sure she would see one some day. The other
children called the seals mermaids; and were contented with the queer,
shiny creatures who played in the water, lay on the rocks, and peeped at
them with soft, bright eyes as they sailed by. Fancy was not satisfied
with seals,--they were not pretty and graceful enough for her,--and she
waited and watched for a real mermaid. On this day she took a breezy run
with the beach-birds along the shore; she planted a pretty red weed in
her garden; and let out the water-beetles and snails who had passed the
night in her palace. Then she went to a rock that stood near the quiet
nook where she played alone, and sat there looking for a mermaid as the
tide came in; for it brought her many curious things, and it might
perhaps bring a mermaid.
As she looked across the waves that came tumbling one over the other,
she saw something that was neither boat nor buoy nor seal. It was a
queer-looking thing, with a wild head, a long waving tail, and something
like arms that seemed to paddle it along. The waves tumbled it about, so
Fancy could not see very well: but, the longer she looked, the surer she
was that this curious thing was a mermaid; and she waited eagerly for it
to reach the shore. Nearer and nearer it came, till a great wave threw
it upon the sand; and Fancy saw that it was only a long piece of kelp,
torn up by the roots. She was very much disappointed; but, all of a
sudden, her face cleared up, she clapped her hands, and began to dance
round the kelp, saying:
"I'll make a mermaid myself, since none will come to me."
Away she ran, higher up the beach, and, after thinking a minute, began
her work. Choosing a smooth, hard place, she drew with a stick the
outline of her mermaid; then she made the hair of the brown marsh-grass
growing near by, arranging it in long locks on either side the face,
which was made of her prettiest pink and white shells,--for she pulled
down her palace to get them. The eyes were two gray pebbles; the neck
and arms of larger, white shells; and the dress of sea-weed,--red,
green, purple, and yellow; very splendid, for Fancy emptied her garden
to dress her mermaid.
"People say that mermaids always have tails; and I might make one out of
this great leaf of kelp. But it isn't pretty, and I don't like it; for I
want mine to be beautiful: so I won't have any tail," said Fancy, and
put two slender white shells for feet, at the lower edge of the fringed
skirt. She laid a wreath of little star-fish across the brown hair, a
belt of small orange-crabs round the waist, buttoned the dress with
violet snail-shells, and hung a tiny white pebble, like a pearl, in
either ear.
"Now she must have a glass and a comb in her hand, as the song says,
and then she will be done," said Fancy, looking about her, well pleased.
Presently she found the skeleton of a little fish, and his backbone made
an excellent comb; while a transparent jelly-fish served for a glass,
with a frame of cockle-shells round it. Placing these in the hands of
her mermaid, and some red coral bracelets on her wrists, Fancy
pronounced her done; and danced about her, singing:
"My pretty little mermaid,
Oh! come, and play with me:
I'll love you, I'll welcome you;
And happy we shall be."
Now, while she had been working, the tide had crept higher and higher;
and, as she sung, one wave ran up and wet her feet.
"Oh, what a pity I didn't put her farther up!" cried Fancy; "the tide
will wash her all away; and I meant to keep her fresh, and show her to
Aunt Fiction. My poor mermaid!--I shall lose her; but perhaps she will
be happier in the sea: so I will let her go."
Mounting her rock, Fancy waited to see her work destroyed. But the sea
seemed to pity her; and wave after wave came up, without doing any harm.
At last one broke quite over the mermaid, and Fancy thought that would
be the end of her. But, no: instead of scattering shells, stones, and
weeds, the waves lifted the whole figure, without displacing any thing,
and gently bore it back into the sea.
"Good by! good by!" cried Fancy, as the little figure floated away;
then, as it disappeared, she put her hands before her face,--for she
loved her mermaid, and had given all her treasures to adorn her; and now
to lose her so soon seemed hard,--and Fancy's eyes were full of tears.
Another great wave came rolling in; but she did not look up to see it
break, and, a minute after, she heard steps tripping toward her over the
sand. Still she did not stir; for, just then, none of her playmates
could take the place of her new friend, and she didn't want to see them.
"Fancy! Fancy!" called a breezy voice, sweeter than any she had ever
heard. But she did not raise her head, nor care to know who called. The
steps came quite close; and the touch of a cold, wet hand fell on her
own. Then she looked up, and saw a strange little girl standing by her,
who smiled, showing teeth like little pearls, and said, in the breezy
voice:
"You wanted me to play with you, so I came."
"Who are you?" asked Fancy, wondering where she had seen the child
before.
"I'm your mermaid," said the child.
"But the water carried her away," cried Fancy.
"The waves only carried me out for the sea to give me life, and then
brought me back to you," answered the new comer.
"But are you really a mermaid?" asked Fancy, beginning to smile and
believe.
"I am really the one you made: look, and see if I'm not;" and the little
creature turned slowly round, that Fancy might be sure it was her own
work.
She certainly was very like the figure that once lay on the sand,--only
she was not now made of stones and shells. There was the long brown hair
blowing about her face, with a wreath of starry shells in it. Her eyes
were gray, her cheeks and lips rosy, her neck and arms white; and from
under her striped dress peeped little bare feet. She had pearls in her
ears, coral bracelets, a golden belt, and a glass and comb in her hands.
"Yes," said Fancy, drawing near, "you _are_ my little mermaid; but how
does it happen that you come to me at last?"
"Dear friend," answered the water-child, "you believed in me, watched
and waited long for me, shaped the image of the thing you wanted out of
your dearest treasures, and promised to love and welcome me. I could not
help coming; and the sea, that is as fond of you as you are of it,
helped me to grant your wish."
"Oh, I'm glad, I'm glad! Dear little mermaid, what is your name?" cried
Fancy, kissing the cool cheek of her new friend, and putting her arms
about her neck.
"Call me by my German cousin's pretty name,--Lorelei," answered the
mermaid, kissing back as warmly as she could.
"Will you come home and live with me, dear Lorelei?" asked Fancy, still
holding her fast.
"If you will promise to tell no one who and what I am, I will stay with
you as long as you love and believe in me. As soon as you betray me, or
lose your faith and fondness, I shall vanish, never to come back again,"
answered Lorelei.
"I promise: but won't people wonder who you are? and, if they ask me,
what shall I say?" said Fancy.
"Tell them you found me on the shore; and leave the rest to me. But you
must not expect other people to like and believe in me as you do. They
will say hard things of me; will blame you for loving me; and try to
part us. Can you bear this, and keep your promise faithfully?"
"I think I can. But why won't they like you?" said Fancy, looking
troubled.
"Because they are not like you, dear," answered the mermaid, with salt
tears in her soft eyes. "They have not your power of seeing beauty in
all things, of enjoying invisible delights, and living in a world of
your own. Your Aunt Fiction will like me; but your Uncle Fact won't. He
will want to know all about me; will think I'm a little vagabond; and
want me to be sent away somewhere, to be made like other children. I
shall keep out of his way as much as I can; for I'm afraid of him."
"I'll take care of you, Lorelei dear; and no one shall trouble you. I
hear Miss Fairbairn calling; so I must go. Give me your hand, and don't
be afraid."
Hand in hand the two went toward the other children, who stopped
digging, and stared at the new child. Miss Fairbairn, who was very wise
and good, but rather prim, stared too, and said, with surprise:
"Why, my dear, where did you find that queer child?"
"Down on the beach. Isn't she pretty?" answered Fancy, feeling very
proud of her new friend.
"She hasn't got any shoes on; so she's a beggar, and we mustn't play
with her," said one boy, who had been taught that to be poor was a very
dreadful thing.
"What pretty earrings and bracelets she's got!" said a little girl, who
thought a great deal of her dress.
"She doesn't look as if she knew much," said another child, who was kept
studying so hard that she never had time to dig and run, and make
dirt-pies, till she fell ill, and had to be sent to the sea-side.
"What's your name? and who are your parents?" asked Miss Fairbairn.
"I've got no parents; and my name is Lorelei," answered the mermaiden.
"You mean Luly; mind your pronunciation, child," said Miss Fairbairn,
who corrected every one she met in something or other. "Where do you
live?"
"I haven't got any home now," said Lorelei, smiling at the lady's tone.
"Yes, you have: my home is yours; and you are going to stay with me
always," cried Fancy, heartily. "She is my little sister, Miss
Fairbairn: I found her; and I'm going to keep her, and make her happy."
"Your uncle won't like it, my dear." And Miss Fairbairn shook her head
gravely.
"Aunt will; and Uncle won't mind, if I learn my lessons well, and
remember the multiplication table all right. He was going to give me
some money, so I might learn to keep accounts; but I'll tell him to keep
the money, and let me have Lorelei instead."
"Oh, how silly!" cried the boy who didn't like bare feet.
"No, she isn't; for, if she's kind to the girl, maybe she'll get some of
her pretty things," said the vain little girl.
"Keeping accounts is a very useful and important thing. I keep mine; and
mamma says I have great arth-met-i-cal talent," added the pale child,
who studied too much.
"Come, children; it's time for dinner. Fancy, you can take the girl to
the house; and your uncle will do what he thinks best about letting you
keep her," said Miss Fairbairn, piling them into the basket-wagon.
Fancy kept Lorelei close beside her; and as soon as they reached the
great hotel, where they all were staying with mothers and fathers,
uncles or aunts, she took her to kind Aunt Fiction, who was interested
at once in the friendless child so mysteriously found. She was satisfied
with the little she could discover, and promised to keep her,--for a
time, at least.
"We can imagine all kinds of romantic things about her; and, by and by,
some interesting story may be found out concerning her. I can make her
useful in many ways; and she shall stay."
As Aunt Fiction laid her hand on the mermaid's head, as if claiming her
for her own, Uncle Fact came stalking in, with his note-book in his
hand, and his spectacles on his nose. Now, though they were married,
these two persons were very unlike. Aunt Fiction was a graceful,
picturesque woman; who told stories charmingly, wrote poetry and novels,
was very much beloved by young folks, and was the friend of some of the
most famous people in the world. Uncle Fact was a grim, grave, decided
man; whom it was impossible to bend or change. He was very useful to
every one; knew an immense deal; and was always taking notes of things
he saw and heard, to be put in a great encyclopaedia he was making. He
didn't like romance, loved the truth, and wanted to get to the bottom of
every thing. He was always trying to make little Fancy more sober,
well-behaved, and learned; for she was a freakish, dreamy, yet very
lovable and charming child. Aunt Fiction petted her to her heart's
content, and might have done her harm, if Uncle Fact had not had a hand
in her education; for the lessons of both were necessary to her, as to
all of us.
"Well, well, well! who is this?" he said briskly, as he turned his keen
eyes and powerful glasses on the new comer.
Aunt Fiction told him all the children had said; but he answered
impatiently:
"Tut, tut! my dear: I want the facts of the case. You are apt to
exaggerate; and Fancy is not to be relied on. If the child isn't a fool,
she must know more about herself than she pretends. Now, answer truly,
Luly, where did you come from?"
But the little mermaid only shook her head, and answered as before,
"Fancy found me on the beach, and wants me to stay with her. I'll do
her no harm: please, let me stay."
"She has evidently been washed ashore from some wreck, and has forgotten
all about herself. Her wonderful beauty, her accent, and these ornaments
show that she is some foreign child," said Aunt Fiction, pointing to the
earrings.
"Nonsense! my dear: those are white pebbles, not pearls; and, if you
examine them, you will find that those bracelets are the ones you gave
Fancy as a reward for so well remembering the facts I told her about
coral," said the uncle, who had turned Lorelei round and round, pinched
her cheek, felt her hair, and examined her frock through the glasses
which nothing escaped.
"She may stay, and be my little playmate, mayn't she? I'll take care of
her; and we shall be very happy together," cried Fancy eagerly.
"One can't be sure of that till one has tried. You say you will take
care of her: have you got any money to pay her board, and buy her
clothes?" asked her uncle.
"No; but I thought you'd help me," answered Fancy wistfully.
"Never say you'll do a thing till you are sure you can," said Uncle
Fact, as he took notes of the affair, thinking they might be useful by
and by. "I've no objection to your keeping the girl, if, after making
inquiries about her, she proves to be a clever child. She can stay
awhile; and, when we go back to town, I'll put her in one of our charity
schools, where she can be taught to earn her living. Can you read,
Luly?"
"No," said the mermaid, opening her eyes.
"Can you write and cipher?"
"What is that?" asked Lorelei innocently.
"Dear me! what ignorance!" cried Uncle Fact.
"Can you sew, or tend babies?" asked Aunt Fiction gently.
"I can do nothing but play and sing, and comb my hair."
"I see! I see!--some hand-organ man's girl. Well, I'm glad you keep your
hair smooth,--that's more than Fancy does," said Uncle Fact.
"Let us hear you sing," whispered his little niece; and, in a voice as
musical as the sound of ripples breaking on the shore, Lorelei sung a
little song that made Fancy dance with delight, charmed Aunt Fiction,
and softened Uncle Fact's hard face in spite of himself.
"Very well, very well, indeed: you have a good voice. I'll see that you
have proper teaching; and, by and by, you can get your living by giving
singing-lessons," he said, turning over the leaves of his book, to look
for the name of a skilful teacher; for he had lists of every useful
person, place, and thing under the sun.
Lorelei laughed at the idea; and Fancy thought singing for gold, not
love, a hard way to get one's living.
Inquiries were made; but nothing more was discovered, and neither of the
children would speak: so the strange child lived with Fancy, and made
her very happy. The other children didn't care much about her; for with
them she was shy and cold, because she knew, if the truth was told, they
would not believe in her. Fancy had always played a good deal by
herself, because she never found a mate to suit her; now she had one,
and they enjoyed each other very much. Lorelei taught her many things
besides new games; and Aunt Fiction was charmed with the pretty stories
Fancy repeated to her, while Uncle Fact was astonished at the knowledge
of marine plants and animals which she gained without any books. Lorelei
taught her to swim, like a fish; and the two played such wonderful
pranks in the water that people used to come down to the beach when they
bathed. In return, Fancy tried to teach her friend to read and write and
sew; but Lorelei couldn't learn much, though she loved her little
teacher dearly, and every evening sung her to sleep with beautiful
lullabies.