been listening to their quarrels, said to him, "This is your
negligence, Puck; or did you do this wilfully?" "Believe me, king of
shadows," answered Puck, "it was a mistake; did not you tell me I
should know the man by his Athenian garments? However, I am not sorry
this has happened, for I think their jangling makes excellent sport."
"You heard," said Oberon, "that Demetrius and Lysander are gone to
seek a convenient place to fight in. I command you to overhang the
night with a thick fog, and lead these quarrelsome lovers so astray in
the dark, that they shall not be able to find each other. Counterfeit
each of their voices to the other, and with bitter taunts provoke them
to follow you, while they think it is their rival's tongue they hear.
See you do this, till they are so weary they can go no farther; and
when you find they are asleep, drop the juice of this other flower
into Lysander's eyes, and when he awakes he will forget his new love
for Helena, and return to his old passion for Hermia; and then the two
fair ladies may each one be happy with the man she loves, and they
will think all that has passed a vexatious dream. About this quickly,
Puck, and I will go and see what sweet love my Titania has found."
Titania was still sleeping, and Oberon seeing a clown near her, who
had lost his way in the wood, and was likewise asleep: "This fellow,"
said he, "shall be my Titania's true love;" and clapping an ass's head
over the clown's, it seemed to fit him as well as if it had grown upon
his own shoulders. Though Oberon fixed the ass's head on very gently,
it awakened him, and rising up, unconscious of what Oberon had done to
him, he went towards the bower where the fairy queen slept.
"Ah! what angel is that I see?" said Titania, opening her eyes, and
the juice of the little purple flower beginning to take effect: "are
you as wise as you are beautiful?"
"Why, mistress," said the foolish clown, "if I have wit enough to find
the way out of this wood, I have enough to serve my turn."
"Out of the wood do not desire to go," said the enamored queen. "I am
a spirit of no common rate. I love you. Go with me, and I will give
you fairies to attend upon you."
She then called four of her fairies: their names were, Pease-blossom,
Cobweb, Moth, and Mustard-seed.
"Attend," said the queen, "upon this sweet gentleman; hop in his
walks, and gambol in his sight; feed him with grapes and apricots, and
steal for him the honey-bags from the bees. Come, sit with me," said
she to the clown, "and let me play with your amiable hairy cheeks, my
beautiful ass! and kiss your fair large ears, my gentle joy!"
"Where is Pease-blossom?" said the ass-headed clown, not much
regarding the fairy queen's courtship, but very proud of his new
attendants.
"Here, sir," said little Pease-blossom.
"Scratch my head," said the clown. "Where is Cobweb?"
"Here, sir," said Cobweb.
"Good Mr. Cobweb," said the foolish clown, "kill me the red humblebee
on the top of that thistle yonder; and, good Mr. Cobweb, bring me the
honey-bag. Do not fret yourself too much in the action, Mr. Cobweb,
and take care the honey-bag break not; I should be sorry to have you
overflown with a honey-bag. Where is Mustard-seed?"
"Here, sir," said Mustard-seed: "what is your will?"
"Nothing," said the clown, "good Mr. Mustard-seed, but to help Mr.
Pease-blossom to scratch; I must go to a barber's, Mr. Mustard-seed,
for methinks I am marvelous hairy about the face."
"My sweet love," said the queen, "what will you have to eat? I have a
venturous fairy shall seek the squirrel's hoard, and fetch you some
new nuts."
"I had rather have a handful of dried pease," said the clown, who with
his ass's head had got an ass's appetite. "But, I pray, let none of
your people disturb me, for I have a mind to sleep."
"Sleep, then," said the queen, "and I will wind you in my arms. O how
I love you! how I dote upon you!"
When the fairy king saw the clown sleeping in the arms of his queen,
he advanced within her sight, and reproached her with having lavished
her favors upon an ass.
This she could not deny, as the clown was then sleeping within her
arms, with his ass's head crowned by her with flowers.
When Oberon had teased her for some time, he again demanded the
changeling boy; which she, ashamed of being discovered by her lord
with her new favorite, did not dare to refuse him.
Oberon, having thus obtained the little boy he had so long wished for
to be his page, took pity on the disgraceful situation into which, by
his merry contrivance, he had brought his Titania, and threw some of
the juice of the other flower into her eyes; and the fairy queen
immediately recovered her senses, and wondered at her late dotage,
saying how she now loathed the sight of the strange monster.
Oberon likewise took the ass's head from off the clown, and left him
to finish his nap with his own fool's head upon his shoulders.
Oberon and his Titania being now perfectly reconciled, he related to
her the history of the lovers, and their midnight quarrels; and she
agreed to go with him and see the end of their adventures.
The fairy king and queen found the lovers and their fair ladies, at no
great distance from each other, sleeping on a grass-plot; for Puck, to
make amends for his former mistake, had contrived with the utmost
diligence to bring them all to the same spot, unknown to each other;
and he had carefully removed the charm from off the eyes of Lysander
with the antidote the fairy king gave to him.
Hermia first awoke, and finding her lost Lysander asleep so near her,
was looking at him and wondering at his strange inconstancy. Lysander
presently opening his eyes, and seeing his dear Hermia, recovered his
reason which the fairy charm had before clouded, and with his reason,
his love for Hermia; and they began to talk over the adventures of the
night, doubting if these things had really happened, or if they had
both been dreaming the same bewildering dream.
Helena and Demetrius were by this time awake; and a sweet sleep having
quieted Helena's disturbed and angry spirits, she listened with
delight to the professions of love which Demetrius still made to her,
and which, to her surprise as well as pleasure, she began to perceive
were sincere.
These fair night-wandering ladies, now no longer rivals, became once
more true friends; all the unkind words which had passed were
forgiven, and they calmly consulted together what was best to be done
in their present situation. It was soon agreed that, as Demetrius had
given up his pretensions to Hermia, he should endeavor to prevail upon
her father to revoke the cruel sentence of death which had been passed
against her. Demetrius was preparing to return to Athens for this
friendly purpose, when they were surprised with the sight of Egeus,
Hermia's father, who came to the wood in pursuit of his runaway
daughter.
When Egeus understood that Demetrius would not now marry his daughter,
he no longer opposed her marriage with Lysander, but gave his consent
that they should be wedded on the fourth day from that time, being the
same day on which Hermia had been condemned to lose her life; and on
that same day Helena joyfully agreed to marry her beloved and now
faithful Demetrius.
The fairy king and queen, who were invisible spectators of this
reconciliation, and now saw the happy ending of the lovers' history,
brought about through the good offices of Oberon, received so much
pleasure, that these kind spirits resolved to celebrate the
approaching nuptials with sports and revels throughout their fairy
kingdom.
And now, if any are offended with this story of fairies and their
pranks, as judging it incredible and strange, they have only to think
that they have been asleep and dreaming, and that all these adventures
were visions which they saw in their sleep; and I hope none of my
readers will be so unreasonable as to be offended with a pretty
harmless Midsummer Night's Dream.
OLD-FASHIONED STORIES
SIMPLE SUSAN
By MARIA EDGEWORTH
ADAPTED BY LOUEY CHISHOLM
I
QUEEN OF THE MAY
Simple Susan lived one hundred years ago. Mr. Price was Susan's
father. He rented a small farm and was always hard at work. No more
honest man could be found far or near, and he loved his little
daughter from the bottom of his big heart.
Mrs. Price was Susan's mother. She was a good woman who was always
busy cooking, or cleaning, or sewing. The bread and cakes made by her
were better than those made by any one else in the village. When she
was not doing household work, she earned money by taking in plain
needlework. All who knew Mrs. Price liked her and were sorry she was
so far from strong. That no girl had a better mother than Susan, every
one agreed.
John and William were Susan's little brothers. They were quite sure
that no other boys in all the world had such a good sister as theirs.
Our story begins on the evening before the first of May. Now one
hundred years ago, Mayday was looked forward to with glee by all
English children living in the country. Early that morning the lads
and lasses of the village, gaily decked with flowers, would go merrily
singing from house to house. In their midst would walk the Queen of
the May, or sometimes, seated in a chair twined round with blossom,
she would be carried from door to door by her little companions. With
a wreath of their gayest flowers they would crown her their Queen, and
for her would be woven the fairest garlands. After the May carols were
sung, cake, coppers, or small coins would be given to the boys and
girls.
To choose their Queen and to arrange their flowers the children would
meet on the last day of April. This they did in the village where
Susan lived, and their meeting-place was in a corner of a field close
by a large pink hawthorn. A shady lane ran past one side of the bush.
On another side a sweetbrier hedge separated it from the garden
belonging to an attorney.
This attorney was a very cross man, so cross that the village people
were always in fear of him. Although he had hedged and fenced his
garden, it sometimes happened that there would stray into it a pig, or
a dog, or a goat, or a goose belonging to a poor neighbor. Then the
attorney would go to the owner of the stray animal and in a harsh
voice demand money to pay for the damage it had done.
Nor did this cruel man let people walk along the paths through his
meadows, although they did no harm. He blocked up the stiles with
stones and prickly shrubs, so that not even a gosling could squeeze
under them nor a giant climb over. Even the village children were
afraid to fly their kites near his fields, lest they should get
entangled in his trees or fall on his ground.
Mr. Case was the name of this attorney, and he had one son and a
daughter called Barbara.
For long the father paid no attention to the education of his
children, for all his time and thought were given to money-making.
Meanwhile Barbara and her brother ran wild with the village children.
But suddenly Mr. Case decided to send his son to a tutor to learn
Latin, and to employ a maid to wait upon Barbara. At the same time he
gave strict orders that his children should no longer play with their
old companions.
The village children were not at all sorry when they heard this.
Barbara had not been a favorite among them, for she had always wanted
to rule them and to secure for herself the chief part in their games.
When Barbara saw that she was not missed by her old friends she was
vexed, and she became angry when she found that they paid no attention
to the grand air with which she now spoke nor to the fine frocks which
she wore.
To one girl Barbara had a special dislike. This was none other than
Susan Price, the sweetest-tempered and busiest lass in the village,
and the pride and delight of all who knew her. The farm rented by
Susan's father was near the house in which Mr. Case lived, and Barbara
from her window used to watch Susan at work.
Sometimes the little girl was raking the garden-plots in her neat
garden; sometimes she was weeding the paths; sometimes she was
kneeling at her beehive with fresh flowers for her bees, and sometimes
she was in the hen-yard scattering corn among the eager little
chickens. In the evening Barbara often saw her sitting in the
summer-house over which sweet honeysuckle crept, and there, with a
clean three-legged pine table before her upon which to lay her work,
Susan would sew busily. Her seams were even and neat, for Mrs. Price
had taught her daughter that what is worth doing is worth doing well.
Both Susan and her mother were great favorites in the village. It was
at Mrs. Price's door that the children began their Mayday rounds, and
it was Susan who was usually Queen of the May.
It was now time for the village children to choose their queen. The
setting sun was shining full upon the pink blossoms of the hawthorn
when the merry group met to make their plans for the morrow.
Barbara Case, sulkily walking alone in her father's garden, heard the
happy voices and, crouching behind the hedge that divided her from the
other children, she listened to their plans.
"Where is Susan?" were the first words she overheard.
"Yes, where is Susan?" repeated a boy called Philip, stopping short in
a tune he was playing on his pipe: "I want her to sing me this air, I
can't remember how it goes."
"And I wish Susan would come, I'm sure," cried Mary, a little girl
whose lap was full of primroses. "She will give me some thread to tie
up my nosegays, and she will show me where the fresh violets grow, and
she has promised to give me a great bunch of her cowslips to wear
to-morrow. I wish she would come."
"Nothing can be done without Susan!" cried another child. "She always
shows us where the nicest flowers are to be found in the lanes and
meadows."
"Susan must help to weave the garlands," said another.
"Susan must be Queen of the May!" shouted several together.
"Why does she not come?" grumbled Philip.
Rose, who was Susan's special friend, now came forward to remind them
that when Susan was late it was always because she was needed at home.
"Go, Rose, and tell her to make haste," cried the impatient Philip.
"Attorney Case is dining at the Abbey to-day, and if he comes home and
finds us here, perhaps he will drive us away. He says this bit of
ground belongs to his garden, but that is not true, for Farmer Price
says we have all as much right to it as he has. He wants to rob us of
our playground. I wish he and Bab, or Miss Barbara, as I suppose we
must now call her, were a hundred miles away, I do. Just yesterday she
knocked down my ninepins on purpose as she passed with her gown
trailing in the dust."
"Yes," cried Mary, "her gown is always trailing. She does not hold it
up nicely like Susan, and in spite of all her fine clothes she never
looks half so neat. Mamma says she hopes I shall grow like Susan, and
so do I. I should not like to be vain like Barbara were I ever so
rich."
"Rich or poor," said Philip, "it does not become a girl to be vain,
much less bold, as Barbara was the other day. She stood at her
father's door, and stared at a strange gentleman who stopped near by,
to let his horse drink. I know what he thought of Bab, by his looks,
and of Susan too; for Susan was in her garden, bending down a branch
of the laburnum-tree, looking at its yellow flowers which had just
come out, and when the gentleman asked her how many miles it was to
the next village, she answered him modestly, not bashfully as if she
had never seen any one before, but just right. Then she pulled on her
straw hat that had fallen back while she was looking up at the
laburnum, and went her way home, and the gentleman said to me after
she was gone, 'Pray, who is that neat, modest girl?' But I wish,"
cried Philip, interrupting himself, "I wish Susan would come!"
Barbara, still crouching on the other side of the hedge, heard
everything that was said.
Susan was all this time, as her friend Rose had guessed, busy at home.
She had been kept by her father's returning later than usual. His
supper was ready for him nearly an hour before he came home, and Susan
swept the hearth twice, and twice put on wood to make a cheerful blaze
for him. At last, when he did come in, he took no notice of the blaze
or of Susan; and when his wife asked him how he was, he made no
answer, but stood with his back to the fire, looking very gloomy.
Susan put his supper upon the table, and set his own chair for him,
but he pushed away the chair and turned from the table, saying, "I
shall eat nothing, child. Why have you such a fire to roast me at this
time of year?"
"You said yesterday, father, I thought, that you liked a little
cheerful wood-fire in the evening, and there was a great shower of
hail. Your coat is quite wet. We must dry it."
"Take it, then, child," he said, pulling it off, "I shall soon have no
coat to dry. Take my hat, too," he went on, throwing it upon the
ground.
Susan hung up his hat, put his coat over the back of a chair to dry,
and then stood looking at her mother, who was not well. She had tired
herself with baking, and now, alarmed by her husband's strange
conduct, she sat down pale and trembling. The father threw himself
into a chair, folded his arms, and gazed into the fire.
Susan was the first who ventured to break the silence. Fondling her
father, she tried to coax him to eat the supper prepared for him.
This, however, she could not persuade him to do, but he said, with a
faint smile, that he thought he could eat one of her guinea-hen's
eggs. Susan thanked him, and showed her eagerness to please her dear
father by running as fast as she could to her neat chicken-yard. Alas!
the guinea-fowl was not there. It had strayed into the garden of Mr.
Case. She could see it through the paling. Going to the garden-gate,
Susan timidly opened it, and seeing Miss Barbara walk slowly by, she
asked if she might come in and take her guinea-fowl.
Barbara, who at that moment was thinking of all she had heard the
village children say, started when she heard Susan's voice.
"Shut the gate," she said crossly, "you have no business in our
garden. As for the hen, I shall keep it; it is always flying in here
and plaguing us, and my father told me I might catch it and keep it
the next time it got in, and it is in now." Then Barbara called to her
maid Betty and bid her catch the mischievous bird.
"Oh, my guinea-hen! my pretty guinea-hen!" cried Susan, as mistress
and maid hunted the frightened, screaming creature from corner to
corner.
"Now we have it!" said Betty, holding it fast by the legs.
"Then pay damages, Queen Susan, or you may say good-by to your pretty
guinea-hen," said Barbara in a rude tone.
"It has done no damage," said Susan; "but tell me what I must pay."
"A shilling," said Barbara.
"Oh, if only sixpence would do!" said Susan; "I have but sixpence of
my own in the world, and here it is."
"It won't do," said Barbara, turning her back.
"Nay, but hear me," cried Susan, "let me at least come in to look for
its eggs. I only want one for my father's supper. You shall have all
the rest."
"What is your father or his supper to us; is he so particular that he
can eat none but guinea-hen's eggs?" said Barbara. "If you want your
hen and your eggs, pay for them, and you shall have them."
"I have only sixpence and you say that won't do," said Susan with a
sigh, as she looked at her favorite which was in the maid's cruel
hands, struggling and screaming in vain.
Susan went away feeling very sad. At the door of her father's cottage
she saw her friend Rose, who had just come to summon her to the
hawthorn-bush.
"They are all at the hawthorn, and I have come for you. We can do
nothing without you, dear Susan," cried Rose, running to meet her the
moment she saw her, "You are chosen Queen of the May--come, make
haste. But what is the matter? Why do you look so sad?"
"Ah!" said Susan, "don't wait for me; I can't come to you, but," she
added, pointing to the tuft of cowslips in the garden, "gather those
for little Mary; I promised them to her, and tell her the violets are
under a hedge just beside the stile, on the right as we go to church.
Good-by! never mind me; I can't come--I can't stay, for my father
wants me."
"But don't turn away your face; I won't keep you a moment; only tell
me what is the matter," said her friend, following her into the
cottage.
"Oh, nothing, not much," said Susan; "if I had not wanted the egg in a
great hurry for father, it would not have vexed me--to be sure I
should have clipped my guinea-hen's wings, and then she could not have
flown over the hedge; but let us think no more about it now," she
added, trying to hide a tear.
When Rose, however, learned that her friend's guinea-hen was kept a
prisoner by Barbara, she was hot with indignation, and at once ran
back to tell the story to her companions.
II
BAD NEWS
As Susan entered the cottage parlor, Farmer Price drew his chair close
to his wife. "You see there is something amiss with me," he said; "I
must tell you what it is." Her father lowered his voice, and Susan,
who was not sure that he wished her to hear what he was going to say,
moved from behind his chair.
"Susan, don't go; sit down here, sweet Susan," he said, making room
for her beside him. "I am afraid I was cross when I came in to-night,
but I had something to vex me, as you shall hear."
Then the farmer told how, a fortnight before, lots had been drawn in
the nearest town, to see which men there and in the surrounding
villages should leave home to be trained as soldiers. For a hundred
years ago it was in this way that men were found to defend their
country. Only if they were under eighteen or above forty years of age
could they escape drawing lots.
"Now, as I would be forty in ten days," said the farmer, "I was told
just to call myself forty then and there; but the truth is the truth,
and should be spoken at all times, come what may. And when the lots
were drawn, it fell to me among others to leave home to be trained to
fight. I was thinking how unhappy we should be to part, when I heard
that if I paid nine guineas to another man, he would take my place,
and I could remain at home with you. I had not the money, for you know
the bad luck we had with the sheep this year, and how they died one
after the other. But I went to Mr. Case and asked him to lend me the
money. He said he would if I handed over to him my lease, for he said,
'If you do not repay me the guineas I shall keep the lease until you
do.'"
"That was a fortnight ago, and to-night Attorney Case tells me he has
discovered that, owing to some mistake in the lease, we may be turned
out of the farm at any time. But I've not come to the worst part yet."
Here Farmer Price stopped short, and his wife and Susan gazed
anxiously into his face.
"The truth must be told," he said with a deep sigh, "I must now leave
you in three days."
"Must you?" said his wife faintly. "Susan dear, open the window."
Susan ran to do as she was bid, and then returned to her mother's
side. The fresh air soon revived the poor woman, and she begged her
husband to go on with his story, and to hide nothing from her.
Farmer Price had no wish to hide anything from those he loved so well.
He believed that the truth should be spoken at all times, but never
had he found it so difficult as at this moment. What had happened was
this. Attorney Case had met Farmer Price that evening. The farmer was
coming home, whistling, from a new-plowed field. The Attorney was on
horseback, and had just dined at the Abbey with Sir Arthur Somers.
The Abbey had until lately belonged to Sir Arthur's elder brother,
but now that he was dead, Sir Arthur owned the estate.
Attorney Case had looked after the property for the elder brother, and
was anxious to be employed by Sir Arthur. There were many farms on the
estate, and it had been part of the Attorney's work to look after the
repairs and to collect the rents. Unfortunately, he had an unpleasant
way of dealing with the farmers, ordering them as he had no right to
do, and being harsh with those who, through misfortune, had not enough
money to to pay their rent in full. As the Attorney met Farmer Price
he stopped him, saying, "A word with you, Farmer Price, if you please.
Walk alongside my horse, and listen. You know the field with the pink
hawthorn where the village children play? I am going to add it to my
garden. I hear you say it does not belong to me. What do you mean by
that?"
"I mean what I say," said Price; "the field is not yours." So angry
was the Attorney on hearing this, that he at once made up his mind to
hurt the farmer as much as he could.
"My good man," he said, "you will remember that a fortnight ago I lent
you nine guineas. To-morrow morning you must return them to me."
"Those guineas," replied the farmer, "I paid, as you know, to the man
who said he would go instead of me to be trained as a soldier. But he
has not yet gone, and I can still get the guineas back from him and go
myself to be trained."
The Attorney was not prepared for this answer. "I do not want to drive
you to that," he said, pretending to be kind. "Now about the
field--you do not want to add it to the farm, do you?"
"Certainly not, for it is not mine."
"Then why object to my having it?"
"Because it is not yours. The children who play there have the right.
It belongs to the village. Truth is truth."
"And a debt is a debt," shouted the angry Attorney, "and must be paid.
Bring me my nine guineas!"