The Book of Friendly Giants
[Illustration: “Good-by,” he roared. “And don’t forget the giant
Riverrath”]
[Illustration]
THE BOOK OF
FRIENDLY GIANTS
BY EUNICE FULLER
WITH INTRODUCTORY VERSES
BY SEYMOUR BARNARD
AND DRAWINGS BY
PAMELA COLMAN SMITH
“_Giants should always be
brotherly with giants, but only
with good giants._”
_Maxim of Pantagruel._
NEW YORK
THE CENTURY COMPANY
Copyright, 1914, by
THE CENTURY CO.
_Published, October, 1914_
PRINTED IN U. S. A.
[Illustration]
In Defense of Giants
Somehow or other, the giants seem to have got a bad name. No sooner is
the word “giant” mentioned than some one is sure to shrug his shoulders
and speak in a meaning tone of “Jack and the Beanstalk.” Now, this is
not only unkind, but, on the giants’ part, quite undeserved. For, as
everybody who is intimate with them knows, there are very few of the
Beanstalk variety.
No self-respecting giant would any more think of threatening a little
boy, or of grinding up people’s bones to make flour, than would a good
fairy godmother. Giants’ dispositions are in proportion to the size of
their bodies, and so when they are good, as most of them are, they are
the kindest-hearted folk in the world, and like nothing better than
helping human beings out of scrapes.
The trouble is that many of the stories were written by people who do not
really know the giants at all, but are so afraid of them as to suppose
that giants must be cruel just because they are big. Every one else has
taken it for granted that the giants were big enough to take care of
themselves, and so nobody has bothered to look into the facts of the
case. Mr. Andrew Lang has given us a whole rainbow of books about the
fairies, but no one seems ever to have written down the whole history of
the giants.
This is a pity, particularly since a great many people have had a chance
to know the giants intimately. For in the old days the giants used to
live all over the world—in Germany, and Ireland, and Norway, and even
here in our own country. And since they have moved back into a land of
their own, they have sometimes come into other countries on a visit and a
brave Englishman, as you will see, once went to visit them.
The history of the giants is as simple as their good-natured lives. All
the giants came originally from one big giant family. And wherever they
went, they kept the same giant ways, and enjoyed playing the same big,
clumsy jokes on each other.
[Illustration]
Contents
PAGE
I THE GIANT AND THE HERDBOY 3
II THE GIANTS’ SHIP
PART ONE:—HOW THE GIANTS WENT EXPLORING 31
PART TWO:—HOW THE GIANTS’ SHIP WAS STOLEN 43
III HOW THE GIANTS GOT THE BEST OF THOR 63
IV THE CUNNING OF FIN’S WIFE 87
V HOW JACK FOUND THE GIANT RIVERRATH 109
VI THE GIANTS’ POT 147
VII THE GIANT WHO RODE ON THE ARK 171
VIII THE WIGWAM GIANTS 191
IX THE GIANT WHO BECAME A SAINT 215
X GARGANTUA
PART ONE:—HOW GARGANTUA LEARNED HIS LATIN 235
PART TWO:—HOW THE BAKERS WISHED THEY HADN’T 251
XI THE MAN WHO WENT TO THE GIANTS’ COUNTRY 273
XII THE GIANT WHO CAME BACK 305
Full Page Illustrations
PAGE
“Good-by,” he roared. “And don’t forget the giant
Riverrath” _Frontispiece_
A fountain that shot up in a silver torrent 11
A tremendous palace, all of ice 71
“No,” said Granua, “I’m down in the valley, picking bilberries” 93
The giants in the market-place 157
The little man stood on the edge of the chimney 181
A tremendous canoe as high as a cliff, and filled with men who
seemed to touch the sky 195
“Good day,” said Offero. “Can you tell me the way to the king
called Christ?” 223
He would make it trot or gallop 239
She could not dine without me 289
The trees brushed them 321
[Illustration: To All Believers]
To All Believers
Boys and girls, of those who rate
All things true if we believe them,
Knocking at your fancy’s gate,
Here are giants; pray receive them:
Friendly folk from every clime,
With an honest glee about them;
(Ah, the once-upon-a-time!—
What would it have been without them?)
Shambling fellows gray and old,
Mighty men of mighty merit;
Giants from the frost and cold,
And the land which we inherit:
Boys and girls, we bid you hark
While this genial host we rally;—
Mad ones, glad ones laugh and lark;
Big as fancied, true to tally.
I
The Giant and the Herdboy
“Where is your shepherd,
Little white sheep?
The moon is at midnight,
And sound is your sleep.
Where is your shepherd,
Little white band?”
“With a great giant
In Giantland.”
_Seymour Barnard._
I
The Giant and the Herdboy
Ivan, the herdboy, lay on the hillside watching the King’s sheep. It was
growing dark, but he did not start for home. For in all the world he had
no home to go to. There was no one who belonged to him,—neither father
nor mother, nor brother nor sister, nor grandfather nor grandmother, nor
so much as a stepmother. Even his best friends, the sheep, belonged to
the King.
Ivan took good care of them nevertheless; and got his black bread and
white cheese to eat in return. Day and night he stayed with his flock
out in the open field; and only when the storm beat down very wet did he
crawl into the little hut he had built at the edge of the forest.
It was not so very lonely after all. For there were ninety-nine sheep to
keep out of bogs and briers. And besides, there were ever so many good
games he could play by himself, vaulting over the bushes with his crook
and playing little tunes on a reed.
It was only at the dead of night when he woke up to hear the wolves
howling, howling in the dark, and the icy shivers began to chase each
other along his back, that he couldn’t help wishing for a warm bed at
home, with a stout father sleeping nearby.
But the queer part was that whenever he thought what kind of father
he should like to have, he could think of nobody but the King himself
mounted on his charger. And as for a mother, who could be better than
the Queen with her nice, motherly arms that hugged the little Princess
Anastasia? When it came to a sister, Ivan could imagine no one more
satisfactory than the Princess herself with her whisking curls and her
blue eyes that were roguish and friendly both at the same time. But that,
of course, was out of the question. So he contented himself with naming
the softest, whitest, curliest lamb Anastasia, and let it go at that.
But to-night as he lay on the hillside he couldn’t help thinking what fun
it would be if the lamb Anastasia were really the Princess, and all the
other sheep were boys and girls so that they could play hide-and-seek
together among the rocks and bushes in the moonlight. But the sheep had
long since nestled down on the hill, and there was nothing for Ivan but
to watch the moon as it came up and up behind the black mountain across
the valley. His eyes began to blink, and he felt himself slipping,
slipping off to sleep.
[Illustration: Ivan listened]
A cry broke through the quiet pasture. Ivan started up. “Wolves!” said
his heart. “Wolves! Wolves again!” But it was not a fierce sound after
all. Again it came, loud like a roar of temper wailing off into a moan.
Ivan listened. “No sheep could bleat like that,” thought he. Nevertheless
he looked. There in the moonlight the nine-and-ninety woolly shapes shone
dimly, huddled safely against the hill.
Once more the sound came, fairly bursting through the air. Ivan held his
breath. It was not the cry of animals but of men, of several men perhaps,
shouting together. “A party of hunters,” thought Ivan, “lost in the
forest!” And he breathed again.
Picking up his crook, he dashed off up the hill, along the edge of the
wood. “I’m coming!” he shouted. “Coming!” But the hunters did not seem
to hear. The same cry kept ringing through the trees ahead, louder at
every step he ran. It seemed directly opposite him now, somewhere in the
forest. He turned in, feeling his way with his crook among the black
shadows of the branches.
There was a crashing and stirring. The trees before him trembled. Ivan
stopped and looked up. Full in the moonlight, half way to the treetops,
gleamed the gigantic shoulder of a man. His head was bent, and he seemed
to be sitting down, gazing intently at something near the ground. As he
moved his arm, the trees swayed and creaked.
Ivan crept nearer. Through an opening between the trees he could see the
giant’s great hands fumbling over his foot. With a piece of fur he was
trying to stop a small cataract of blood that was bursting out from it.
Every now and then, in his clumsy efforts, he seemed to hurt himself
more, for he would throw back his head and give the same deafening howl
Ivan had heard before.
Ivan shivered. In all his life he had never seen a giant; and terrified
as he was, he must have a good look at this one. Crouching, he stole
through the shadow to a little thicket at the giant’s side, and parting
the twigs, leaned eagerly forward. But he had reckoned too much on the
bushes. Under his weight they cracked and bent, and snapped altogether.
His foot slipped, and losing his balance, he crashed through the brush at
the giant’s very elbow.
With a swoop the giant grasped at him. But Ivan was too quick. He dodged
just out of reach, and ran as he had never run before.
“Little creature! Little creature!” called the giant, “don’t run away. I
won’t hurt you. Come back, do come back and help me. If you will bind up
my foot for me, I will give you a reward.”
Ivan’s heart thumped. The giant could crush him in one of his great
hands. But he was in pain, and he had a kindly face. It would be mean to
leave him there alone.
“Oh, little creature,” moaned the giant again, “don’t leave me. I promise
I won’t hurt you. Do come, do come.”
Ivan turned. Stanchly he walked over to the giant’s foot, and running his
hand gently along the sole, picked the rocks and pebbles out of the great
gash.
The giant sighed with relief. “Thank you!” he said. “I hurt it rooting up
an oak-tree, and then I walked on it.”
Ivan pulled off his blouse, and tore it into long pieces. Knotting them
together, he made a strip five or six yards long. He laid it against the
wound, and the giant drew it over the top of the foot where it was hard
for him to reach. Between them they made a neat, firm bandage of it, with
all the knots on top.
The giant beamed. “That feels better,” he said. “And now, little herdboy,
I will show you how a giant keeps his word. If you are not afraid to sit
upon my shoulder, I will take you where no little creature has ever been:
to see a giants’ merrymaking. We are holding a wedding-feast now, and
there will be plenty of fun, you may be sure. Come, I will take good care
of you.”
Ivan picked up his crook. This would be more fun than hide-and-seek on
the hill. He was not in the least afraid, and he felt on good terms with
the giant already. “I’d _like_ to go,” he said.
“Good! Good!” cried the giant, chuckling with the noise of a happy
waterfall. “Up with you, then. Lean against my neck, and take tight hold
of my long hair.” And with that, he picked Ivan gently up and tucked him
snugly just below his right ear.
[Illustration: The giants danced]
“Why, you’re too light! I can’t feel you at all!” he gurgled, as if it
were the best joke in the world. “And I must fix it so that my brothers
can’t _see_ you. Here is a belt for you. Put it on, and you will be quite
invisible.”
So he handed Ivan a long piece of gray gauze, so fine that in the
moonlight he could hardly see it at all. Ivan tied it about his waist.
And then although he pinched himself and knew quite well that he was all
there, he couldn’t so much as see his own toes.
As for the giant, now that he could neither see Ivan nor feel his weight,
he began to be a little nervous. “Once in a while,” he said, “I wish
you’d stand up and shout my name ‘Costan’ into my ear, so that I’ll know
you haven’t tumbled off. And now, are you ready? Hold tight, and we’ll go
on.”
Costan raised himself, and strode off with a long, limping step through
the forest. To Ivan it was like being on a great ship at sea, going up
a long wave, and down. He felt that he might fall asleep if it were not
such fun sitting there on Costan’s shoulder and watching the treetops
glide past the moon.
The trees grew fewer and fewer. Ivan swung around, and peered ahead,
clinging to Costan’s hair. They were coming to a great open space in the
midst of the forest, a meadow thronged with giants and giantesses. There
seemed to be hundreds of them, dressed not like Costan in skins but in
wonderful shimmering garments that blew about their shoulders like clouds
of mist in the moonlight. In the center of them all was a huge fountain
that shot up in a silver torrent far above their heads.
One of the giants came running to meet Costan. “Oh, here you are!” he
cried. “We were afraid you weren’t coming.” And with that, he gave him a
friendly pat on the shoulder that nearly sent Ivan spinning off a hundred
feet or more to the ground.
Costan explained about his hurt foot. “I’ll just sit and look on for
to-night,” he said, and chuckled to himself, thinking of Ivan.
[Illustration: A fountain that shot up in a silver torrent]
And so Ivan, safely nestled on Costan’s shoulder, watched till his eyes
stood out, as the giants danced and played giant games, chasing each
other through the fountain, with a shower of spray like a whirling
rainstorm. They wrestled, they leaped, they sang till all the trees
trembled.
[Illustration: She pulled up a fir-tree]
Just as the fun was at its liveliest, there was a mighty gurgle, and
the fountain, which had been casting itself so high into the air, sank
suddenly into the earth. The oldest giantess of all gathered her great
fluttering robes about her, and striding to the edge of the forest,
pulled up a fir-tree with one wrench of her wrist.
“Midnight!” whispered Costan.
Silently the giants crowded about the uprooted tree.
“_Este tennes!_” cried the giantess.
[Illustration: They cut into the ground like huge knives]
Instantly the giants seemed to flatten out. Their backs seemed to come
forward, and their fronts to shrink back. Their arms, their legs, their
heads, their bodies, grew thin as cardboard. They stood there like great
paper-dolls, taller than the trees. One by one, they stepped into the
hole where the tree had been, and cut their way down into the ground like
huge knives.
Costan bent his ear. “Are you there, little herdboy?” he whispered.
“Yes, Costan,” cried Ivan.
“Keep tight hold, then,” cautioned Costan, “and don’t be afraid. I’m
going to take you with me underground.”
As the last giant vanished, Costan got up slowly and walked toward the
hole. With every step, Ivan could feel him shrinking, until his shoulder
was nothing but a long, thin edge.
There was a quick moment of darkness, and suddenly they were in a hall
shining from floor to ceiling with gold, and so vast that Ivan could
not see to the end of it. Down the center, around a long table sat the
giants, all in their natural shapes again.
Costan slipped into the huge seat that was left for him, and the banquet
went merrily on. To Ivan, who never in all his life had had anything
but bread and cheese, with a little fruit sometimes and a sugar cake at
Christmas, it seemed an impossible dream. There were grapes as big as the
oranges above ground, pheasants the size of eagles, and cakes and tarts
and puddings as big around as the towers of the King’s palace.
But Costan sat silent and uneasy. Then Ivan realized what was the matter:
_Costan was not sure that Ivan was there_. Steadying himself with his
crook, Ivan scrambled up. Standing on tiptoe, he could almost reach the
giant’s ear.
“Costan!” he whispered, as loud as he dared, “I’m here,—all safe.”
Costan beamed with relief, and fell to joking and eating with the rest.
But every now and then he would poise a tiny piece of cake or meat
carelessly above his right shoulder, where Ivan would make it disappear
as completely as he had himself.
At last the oldest giantess rose in her place, to show that the banquet
had come to an end. Amid all the jollity and confusion Costan leaned over
and took from the table a giant roll, as big to Ivan as a whole loaf of
bread.
“Here!” he whispered, below the scraping of the giant chairs. “Tuck this
in your bag, little herdboy, as a reminder of a giant’s promise. And
don’t forget Costan in the world up above.”
As he spoke, everything was suddenly lost in a whirl of darkness,—the
giants, the hall and the feast, even Costan himself. The shouts and
laughter of the huge banqueters grew fainter and fainter till they faded
away into silence.
A sudden bleat made Ivan open his eyes. He was lying on the hillside near
his sheep, and the mountain across the valley glowed red in the sunrise.
“And so,” thought Ivan sadly, “it was a dream after all,—the giants, the
fountain, the banquet, and dear Costan as well.”
He reached for his crook, and started back in amazement. For though he
could feel the handle tightly grasped in his fingers, it seemed to his
startled eyes that the crook suddenly rose up of itself and stood clearly
outlined against the morning sky. As he stepped back, the crook sprang
after him. When he walked forward, the crook bobbed along by his side. He
could feel his hand upon it, but when he looked he could see plainly that
there was no hand there.
Ivan rubbed his eyes. Was he still dreaming then? But no, everything was
just as usual,—the sheep, the hillside and the morning sky. Was it he or
the crook that was bewitched? He looked down at himself in alarm,—and saw
nothing but the stones and grass of the pasture. _There was no Ivan to be
seen_: no arms nor hands nor legs nor feet.
A sudden thought came over him. He felt of his waist. Sure enough! It was
tied about with gauze.
“The invisible belt!” he cried, and pulled it off.
In a twinkling there he was, arms, legs, hands, feet, just the same
as ever. He folded up the long, wispy sash and stuck it into his bag.
Inside, his hand hit something hard and bulgy. It was the giant’s
roll,—the great loaf Costan had given him.
It was past Ivan’s breakfast time, and the sight of the tempting white
bread made him hungry. He tried to break off a piece, but the great roll
would not so much as bend. He drew out his knife, but the harder he cut,
the firmer and sounder the loaf seemed to be. He could not even dent it.
Provoked and impatient, he tried with his teeth. At the first bite, the
hard crust yielded. Something cold and slippery struck his tongue and
rolled out clinking on the ground.
Ivan stooped and stared. There at his feet lay a great round gold-piece
as big as a peppermint-drop. In amazement he looked at the loaf in his
hand. There was not a break anywhere. It was as smooth and whole as
before. He bit again and again. Another gold-piece, and another, fell
at his feet, as round and shining as the first. But the loaf remained
unbroken.
Ivan’s eyes almost started from his head. In all his life he had never
seen a gold-piece before; and whatever he should do with so many he had
not the least idea. He might, of course, build a palace and live like a
lord. But that would take him away from the sheep, and the King and Queen
and Anastasia. On the whole, he decided he was much better as he was,
where he could roll the gold-pieces down the hill and race after them to
the bottom.
Then a splendid idea struck him. To-morrow was the Princess’ birthday.
For a long time he had been wondering what he could give her. Here
was just the thing! What could be better than a heap of the pretty
gold-pieces to play with? He sat down at once, and bit and bit at the
loaf till he had enough of them to fill his bag to overflowing. Bag,
loaf, belt, and all, he hid in his hut at the edge of the forest. Then he
ate his black bread and cheese and went back to his sheep, bounding over
the boulders for sheer happiness.
As soon as the sheep were settled for the night, he ran to the hut again.
Tying the magic belt about his waist, he took up the bag of gold-pieces
and trudged off with them across the fields.
In the moonlight the palace towers rose straight and shining. Every
window gleamed, darkly outlined. Ivan did not hesitate. He knew quite
well which one he wanted. It was the window of the Birthday Room, where
once every year all the servants and the shepherds were allowed to come
to see Anastasia’s presents. To-morrow, he thought, with a catch of his
breath, would be the day.
The bulky form of a guard broke the bright wall of the palace ahead. For
an instant Ivan shrank back. Then with a smothered laugh he dashed across
the grass, underneath the man’s very nose. The guard turned sharply. But
there was no one to be seen. Palace and park lay bright and still in the
moonlight.
Ivan had gained the palace wall. Just as he had remembered, a stout
vine with the trunk of a small tree ran up the side to the very window
of the Birthday Room. He tried it with his foot. It would not have held
a man, but it could bear Ivan even with a bag of gold. Breathless, he
climbed,—so fast that the vine had barely time to tremble before he was
at the top. At his shoulder the casement of the Birthday Room stood ajar.
With one tug he swung it open, and leaned across the sill.
Ivan gazed. On broad chests all about the room glimmered jewels and toys
for the Princess; and in the doorway stood a guard, erect and silent,
watching over them. Underneath the window, deep in shadow, was a low,
cushioned seat.
[Illustration: Every window gleamed]
Something jangled on the floor; and the guard stooped to pick up a knife
fallen from his belt. Instantly, Ivan saw his chance. Holding his bag,
bottom up, on the window seat, he loosened the strings, letting the gold
fall in a heap in the black shadow. By the time the guard had adjusted
his belt again, Ivan was out of the window, climbing down the vine.
Next morning, everything was a-buzz at the palace. The servants
and shepherds, filing around the Birthday Room, barely glanced at
the gorgeous jewels. Every eye was fixed on a glittering pile of
gold-pieces in a glass case. They were worth a king’s fortune, people
said. The Princess could buy with them anything in the world her heart
desired,—castles or coaches, jewels or gowns. And the mystery of it was,
no one knew who had sent them. They had suddenly appeared in the middle
of the night. The whole court was alive with conjectures.
Ivan, filing by with the others, said never a word; but his heart thumped
with pride and happiness. Through a half-open door he could see Anastasia
herself using four of the great round gold-pieces as dishes for her
dolls. Ivan beamed. To-morrow, he decided, the Princess should have a
birthday as well as to-day.
As soon as it was dark, he hurried to his hut, drew out the magic
loaf from its hiding-place, and bit and bit till he had a bagful of
gold-pieces again. Then he put on his invisible belt and ran to the
palace. Everything happened almost as before; and he got away, down the
vine, and back to his sheep before any one was the wiser.
On the window-seat next morning the Princess found the shining heap.
And if the court had been excited before, now it was in an uproar of
astonishment. Hereafter, the King ordered, two guards should stand hidden
beside the window to discover who it was that brought the gold.
So night after night for a week Ivan left the gold-pieces. And morning
after morning the guards reported to the King that no one had been there.
The window, they said, had suddenly swung open; and a bag, jumping
unaided from the sill, had emptied itself on the seat below, disappearing
through the window as magically as it had come. At last the King, tired
of the mystery, declared that he would watch himself.
The eighth night was dark and rainy, and Ivan slipped over the soggy
ground. When he got to the entrance of the park, he realized with a
dreadful sinking of his heart that he had forgotten to put on the magic
belt. He turned to go back, but the thought of the dismal, stormy walk
made him suddenly bold. The palace-guards, he reflected, would be keeping
close to shelter, a night like this. He could easily escape them, and
crawl up the vine unsuspected. Once at the window, he had only to watch
his chance, pop in the gold, and fly back in the darkness to his sheep.
So Ivan kept on. He stole softly by the guard-house where the lazy
soldier lounged half asleep, and crept stealthily up the dripping vine.
The window swung open with a creak, and Ivan, frightened, crouched
breathless beneath the sill. Minutes passed. There was a stir behind one
of the great curtains. The guard was moving. Now perhaps would be the
best time.
Ivan reached over and began emptying his bag. A heavy hand seized his
collar and dragged him bodily into the room. By the light of a flickering
lantern Ivan found himself face to face with—the King!
“Ivan!” exclaimed the King.
There was a pause, Ivan blushing like a culprit, with the empty bag
trembling in his hands.
The King frowned. “To think that you,” he cried, “my best herdboy, whom I
have trusted, should come to steal the gold which a good fairy brings the
Princess! Well, you have given me good service before this, and I will
not treat you harshly now. But go, go at once, and never let me see your
face again.”
And with that, he led him down a staircase and thrust him out into the
dark.
Choking and wretched, Ivan ran back to his hut. Gathering up his loaf and
belt, he crammed them into his bag, and started off into the world.
“Good-by, my sheep!” he cried; and stooped to fondle the little lamb
Anastasia.
“I suppose now,” he reflected miserably, “I shall have to be a great lord
after all.”
By the time he got to the town, day was breaking. The rain had stopped,
and rosy clouds floated across the eastern sky. A sunbeam slanted over
the roof tops, and shone into Ivan’s face. He felt happier all of a
sudden; and taking his loaf, he bit a dozen great gold-pieces out of it.
Then wrapping it up in the magic belt so that no one could see it, he
knocked at a cottage door. Inside, he found a warm breakfast, and dried
himself off by the fire.
A dazzling scheme slowly unfolded in his mind. As soon as breakfast was
done, he went to the coachmaker and ordered a great gold coach; to the
tailor and ordered a golden suit; to the hatter for a hat with golden
plumes. And when the tradespeople heard the clink of his gold-pieces,
they were very glad to serve him, you may be sure.
Only the coachmaker demurred. “A gold coach is nothing,” said he,
“without a coat-of-arms on the door.”
“But I haven’t any,” said Ivan.
“Never mind!” replied the coachmaker, “I will make you one. How did your
good-luck begin?”
“From a loaf of bread,” said Ivan, “and a giant.”
So, the coachmaker painted and painted on the coach-door. When he had
finished, there was as fine a coat-of-arms as you would wish to see,—a
loaf of bread against a background of gold-pieces, and a giant standing
up above.
[Illustration: Ivan’s coat-of-arms]
Then six white horses with gold trappings were harnessed to the coach;
and six servants in golden livery took their places,—two riding ahead,
two riding behind, and two sitting up very straight on the box. Ivan
stepped inside, all dressed in his golden suit and the hat with the
golden plumes. Underneath his arm he carried the giant’s loaf wrapped up
in the magic belt. (But of course nobody could see that.)
“Drive to the King’s palace!” cried Ivan.
So they drove; and all the people along the way were so amazed at the
magnificence of the coach that they ran and told the King that some great
prince was coming to visit him. The King dashed to put on his crown; and
just as the coach drew up at the palace gate, he got seated on his throne
with all his court about him.
[Illustration: So they drove]
Ivan walked up the great hall and bowed low. And all the courtiers bowed
in return to the splendid young prince. Before the King could say a word,
Ivan threw back his head and told the story of the gold-pieces from
beginning to end.
For a moment the King was dumb with astonishment and remorse. Then he
spoke. “Ivan,” said he, “I have done you a wrong. If there is anything I
can do to make it right, you have only to tell me.”
Ivan beamed. “There is only one thing in all the world I want,” he
cried, “and that is to have you for my father, the Queen for my mother,
and Anastasia for my sister!”
“Where is your real father?” asked the King.
“And where is your real mother?” asked the Queen.
“Where is your real sister?” cried Anastasia.
But to all these questions the herdboy gave a satisfactory answer. “I
never had any,” he said.
“Very well then,” cried the King. “You are ADOPTED! I will be your
father; the Queen shall be your mother; Anastasia shall be your sister.
What is more, in five years and a day, when you are quite grown-up, you
shall marry the Princess!”
But by the time he got to that part Ivan and Anastasia were too much
excited to hear. The minute he finished they bowed and curtsied as
well-mannered children should, and ran into the courtyard to play
tiddledywinks with the gold-pieces, over the bread.
Nevertheless, it turned out as the King had said, and in five years and a
day, when they were quite grown-up, Ivan and the Princess were married.
And ever after in the palace-treasury instead of heaps of gold-pieces for
robbers to steal, there was nothing but a single loaf of bread.
—_Based on a Hungarian Folk-tale._
II
The Giants’ Ship
To The Giant Children
Giant children of the Norseland,
In a glad, tumultuous rally,
Skimming ice-peaked mountain-course land,
Crushing forests in the valley,—
We who play in farm and town land,
Crowded streets and city spaces,
Envy you the Up-and-Down Land,
While you seek the level places.
_Seymour Barnard._
II
The Giants’ Ship
Part One: How the Giants Went Exploring
After the earth was newly washed by the Flood, nearly all the land of
Europe lay flat and green under the sun. Except in one far corner there
was not a mountain nor a valley nor a hill nor a hollow, nor so much as
a little stream. The soft young grass stretched away and away, in a wide
meadow, as far as one could see.
But there was nobody there to look. For all the people there were, lived
in the Up-and-Down Country, on a great forked point in the Far North. And
that was a very different kind of place, with mountains that went up and
valleys that went down, cliffs that rose and cascades that fell, and not
so much flat land as a giant could cover with his pocket-handkerchief.
But the giant Wind-and-Weather, who lived there, did not mind that in the
least. He sat quite placidly on a mountain-top and looked through a kind
of glass that he had, out over the sea. As for his wife, the giantess
Sun-and-Sea, nothing bothered her. She sat on a cliff and wove on a kind
of loom that she had, back and forth, back and forth, with a noise like
the long ocean rollers on a fair day.
[Illustration: Playing Follow-the-Leader down the long row of peaks]
When it came to the children, they never sat at all. Like the country,
they were always going up or down,—sliding down the mountains, scrambling
up the waterfalls, or playing Follow-the-Leader, hoppety-skip,
skippety-hop, straight down the long row of peaks that made their home.
And when they all played together, it made rather a good game. For
there were fourteen of them, sturdy youngsters, each over a mile high,
and growing fifty feet or so every day. Then too, they happened in
the jolliest way, for they came in pairs so that every one had his
twin. There were Handsig and Grandsig, Kildarg and Hildarg, Besseld and
Hesseld, Holdwig and Voldwig, Grünweg and Brünweg, Bratzen and Gratzen,
Mutzen and Putzen,—a boy and a girl, a boy and a girl, a boy and a girl,
straight down through.
Now, one morning, with Handsig ahead and Putzen straggling somewhere
behind, they were all playing Follow-the-Leader, rather harder than
usual. Handsig had rolled down peaks, and wriggled up, hopped on one foot
and jumped on two, turned somersaults and splashed through waterfalls.
And the whole line of them had come rolling, wriggling, hopping, jumping,
tumbling, splashing after. Being put to it for something to do next,
Handsig started on the dead run from peak to peak, straight along the
mountain-tops.
All of a sudden he stopped short. Ahead of him were no more mountains,
only a straight drop thousands of feet to the sea. He had come, before
he knew it, to the end of the Up-and-Down Country. But that was not what
made Handsig stop so quickly. He had been to the end of the land before.
It was something beyond the water that attracted him,—another country so
different from his that at first it did not seem to be land at all. There
was no up or down in it. It stretched flat and green as far as he could
see.
Handsig waved his arms and shouted, “Oh, Kildarg, Hildarg, Besseld,
Hesseld, see the nice, green running-place!”
And all the other children, thinking it was still part of the game, waved
their arms and shouted, “Oh, Kildarg, Hildarg, Besseld, Hesseld, see the
nice, green running-place.”
By that time Handsig had no doubt any longer. Without another word he
plunged headforemost into the sea, and swam with all his might straight
for the wide meadow that was the rest of Europe.
Splash! Splash! Splash! The other children dived after, and puffing,
blowing, kicking, raced across the channel. Then hand in hand, fourteen
in a row, they scampered pell-mell down across the plain where Germany is
to-day.
But with swimming so hard and running so fast, poor Putzen was quite
out of breath. It was so strange, too, to be going along on a level. It
did not pitch one forward; it did not hold one back. It was just the
same—just the same, step after step after step. The twenty-six legs
beside Putzen did not stop for a minute; they beat along faster and
faster. Putzen hung on to Mutzen as best she could, but her legs would
not go and her breath would not come. And so, gasping and plunging, she
sprawled headlong, pulling Mutzen after her.
Mutzen dragged down Gratzen, and Gratzen dragged down Bratzen; and so
they all tumbled till the land for miles around was a mass of upturned
turf and sprawling giant children. Then Bratzen wailed, and Gratzen
wailed; and Mutzen and Putzen who were at the bottom of the whole pile,
wailed loudest of all; and the air was so full of large sounds that it
seemed likely to burst.
Now, Grandsig, who felt responsible as the oldest girl of the family,
started to scramble up to quiet Mutzen and Putzen. As she did so, her
hands dug into the soft, moist earth, and scratched up two good-sized
hills. A happy idea struck her. “Kildarg! Hildarg!” she cried. “Look!”
And she burrowed into the earth again, scooping up handful after handful.
Kildarg sat up and wiped his eyes. Hildarg sat up and wiped her eyes.
Then they both began to dig as if their lives depended on it. In a
twinkling, there were no more giant children piled on top of Mutzen and
Putzen; and twenty-eight giant hands were scooping out valleys and piling
up mountains of earth.
Handsig and Grandsig made big mountains; Mutzen and Putzen made little
ones. Every single giant child piled up a whole range higher than he was
himself. Then, when all of them were done, there was such a patting and
a pounding as never was heard before, as the valleys were smoothed, and
the mountains molded into shape. There were sharp peaks and blunt peaks,
smooth peaks and rough peaks, single peaks, double peaks, triple peaks.
As for the valleys, they were of all sorts,—straight and crooked, wide
and narrow, long and short.
Grandsig looked at it all, quite satisfied. “Oh, children,” she cried,
“we have made an Up-and-Down Country!”
The other children looked. Sure enough! It was nothing but hills and
hollows, hills and hollows, just as it was at home. And they all danced
about and cried, “Hooray! We have made an Up-and-Down Country.”
[Illustration: “There is your mast,” said Wind-and-Weather]
“And now,” said Handsig, “let’s run!”
So all the children stepped out from between the mountains they had made,
to run back again to the sea.
“But oh!” cried Kildarg, “where is our nice green running-place?”
The children gasped. Instead of their flat grass plot were miles and
miles of mudholes, hardening in the sun. As far as they could see, their
green meadow was scarred with row after row of great black hollows,—the
marks of their twenty-eight running feet.
That was too much for Putzen, and she sat down on one of her mountains
and wept a whole lake into a valley. As for the other giantesses, they
did very little better, and even Grandsig wept a few giant tears, as she
tried to think what they could ever do to get their running-place back
again.
“I know!” she cried at last. “We’ll go home and ask father to build us a
ship; and then we’ll sail till we find another running-place.”
When a giantess starts to weep, she has so many tears and such large
ones, that it is very hard to stop. So, although the children set off
at once for home, it was some time before Putzen, Gratzen, and Brünweg,
Hesseld, Hildarg and Voldwig were smiling again. And their tears, in a
great torrent, flowed after them, over the hubbles, around among the
hollows, and out toward the sea.
They cried, in fact, so hard and so much that even to-day their tears
are still flowing,—for they gathered and gathered until they became the
river Rhine. As for the mountains the giant children built, they too are
still there. They hardened until they became quite firm and rocky, so
that nowadays in Switzerland people are continually climbing up and over
them. And the place where the giant children made, so to speak, the first
mud-pies, has been called the Playground of Europe ever since.
[Illustration: With as many trees as they could drag]
When the children got home, there was old Wind-and-Weather sitting as
usual on a mountain-top and looking through a kind of glass that he had,
out to sea.
“Oh, father,” they cried, “we want a ship to sail the sea to find a
running-place again.”
Old Wind-and-Weather was not disturbed in the least. He got up, put his
glass into his pocket, and walked along the mountain-ridge. With one slow
wrench, he pulled up by the roots a tree taller than he was himself.
“There is your mast,” said Wind-and-Weather.
Then, Handsig and Grandsig pulled up big trees for beams to make the
sides and keel; Mutzen and Putzen pulled up little trees for oars. And
with as many trees as they could drag, they all trooped after their
father down to the seashore.
Half-way down there was the giantess Sun-and-Sea, sitting as usual on a
cliff and weaving on a kind of loom that she had.
“Oh, mother,” cried the children, “help us. We are building a ship to
sail the sea to find a running-place again.”
Sun-and-Sea was not disturbed in the least. She got up and took out of
her loom a sheet longer than she was herself.
“There is your sail,” said Sun-and-Sea.
Wind-and-Weather took the sail down to the shore, and the children began
such a hacking and planing and pounding as no shipyard has ever heard. In
just a few hours of giant time, there was the great ship with the mast
set and the sail rigged, ready to be launched.
Mutzen and Putzen climbed in and took their oars; and the others pushed
and pulled until the boat, slipping and grating, shot out into the water.
Mutzen and Putzen, having nothing to christen it with, beat on the sides
with their oars and cried, “We name you _Mannigfual_!”
“_Mannigfual!_” echoed the other children. “The giants’ good ship
_Mannigfual_!”
The children climbed in and took the oars. Wind-and-Weather took the
tiller. And there they were, skipping along over the sea. When the wind
blew against them, the children rowed and sang. When the wind blew with
them, they set the sail and strained their eyes to find a running-place
ahead across the water. As for Wind-and-Weather, no matter which way the
wind blew, he sat and steered.
Now, it must never be forgotten that giants’ time is as big as they are;
and half a year to them was scarcely more than a day. Our night and day
they did not bother about in the least, for their big eyes looked through
the dark as well as the light. Sunrise and sunset were no more to them
than the revolving of a lighthouse lamp to us. But the minute a half-year
was up, the giants’ night began, and giant children felt then very much
as ordinary children feel in the evening after eight o’clock has struck.
_Mannigfual_ had not sailed many hundred miles when the giants’ night
came on. Mutzen and Putzen knew that it was coming, because their heads
and their arms and their legs began to feel so very much in the way.
Soon they lost track of their oars altogether, their heads bumped,
their mouths dropped open, and there they were,—fast asleep. Then
Gratzen yawned, and Bratzen yawned,—all the rest even up to Handsig and
Grandsig. But somehow or other they managed to keep on rowing.
Wind-and-Weather took out his glass and scanned the sea ahead. In a
little while they all saw what he was steering for. It was land. A few
minutes more, and they had dropped overboard the great cliff they had
brought for an anchor.
Wind-and-Weather picked up Mutzen and Putzen. With one against each
shoulder, he stepped leisurely out and waded ashore. The children jumped
after, splashing and rubbing their eyes. Straight ahead was a wide
valley. Wind-and-Weather laid Mutzen and Putzen in that; and picking out
a convenient hill for a pillow, stretched himself across the landscape.
“Well,” said Handsig, looking around, “I don’t think much of this as a
running-place!”
And quite right he was. For there was nothing flat or broad about it.
The whole country was broken up into little hills, little valleys,
little fields, little forests. But Handsig might have spared his words,
for there was nobody to listen. So he fitted himself neatly between two
hills, and snored as loudly as the others.
Part Two: How the Giants’ Ship Was Stolen
Now, it happened that the giants had landed in the North of England,
which even in that early time was inhabited by the race of men. And
although there was only wilderness in the part where the giants had
stretched themselves, a few miles down the shore was the cave of the
pirates, Dare-and-Do, Catch-and-Kill, Fear-and-Fly.
[Illustration: Dare-and-Do, Catch-and-Kill, Fear-and-Fly]
The morning after the giants landed, Dare-and-Do was awakened unusually
early. Somewhere outside the dark of the cave, the air seemed full of
rumblings and the noise of great waves beating on the beach. Dare-and-Do
yawned irritably. He was wondering how their old long-boat was standing
it, tied under the cliff. Drawing his dirk, he reached over and pricked
his comrades awake, after the pleasant custom of the cave.
“Storm!” hissed Dare-and-Do.
Groping and growling, the three pirates got up to look after their boat,
and stumbled out—into as fair and innocent a day as ever dawned off
England. The thunderings kept on, but there was not a cloud in the sky.
The waves still pounded, but they burst white and glittering into the
sunlight.
Catch-and-Kill turned crossly. “The storm’s over,” he said.
But Fear-and-Fly stood where he was, pointing out to sea, and shaking
from head to foot. “Sea-serpent!” he gasped.
The others looked. There, a mile or so out at sea, stretched a great
monster, motionless and stiff. Was it after all a monster,—the long,
high, level wall, hiding the horizon, the great column in the center,
towering and towering until it was lost in the sky?
“Sea-serpent!” snorted Catch-and-Kill. “It’s an island, a magic island.”
Dare-and-Do peered, shading his eyes. Across that high column went a bar.
“You’re both wrong!” he shouted. “It’s all a ship,—a great ship.”
Now, there was this to be said for Dare-and-Do. There was never a ship
made that he was afraid of. No matter what the size, his one idea was
always to capture it; and the bigger the better, for him. So, instead of
cowering at the sight of the giants’ ship, he rushed back to the cave for
his oars and a whole set of dirks and pikes.
“It will make our fortune,” he cried, “—our everlasting fortune!”
Catch-and-Kill headed off Fear-and-Fly, who was already making for the
bushes, and dragged him down to untie the boat. Dare-and-Do took one oar,
Catch-and-Kill the other; and, with Fear-and-Fly huddling astern, they
set off at top speed. With every stroke of the oars the ship grew nearer
and bigger. To Fear-and-Fly it seemed an unending stretch of wooden cliff
ahead. As they drew toward it, he saw that the side was nothing less than
a mountain, towering a thousand feet into the air. The sight made him
dizzy. He threw himself down on the bottom and shut his eyes.
The others were rowing silently now. The boat slipped stealthily,
stealthily, alongside the steep ship. Dare-and-Do crept to the prow and
thrust his pike into one of the ship’s enormous beams. It held. He passed
a rope over, and the boat was tied.
Without a moment’s pause, he drew his knife, and began carving out
footholds in the massive wood,—up, up, up the ship’s side. As he carved,
he climbed, hand over hand, foot over foot, clinging like a fly to the
precipice.
Catch-and-Kill did not hesitate. He fastened the boat’s stern, as
Dare-and-Do had the prow. Stooping, he seized Fear-and-Fly by the collar,
and dragged him forward along the bottom. With his free hand he pulled
out his dirk and pointed with it, first at Dare-and-Do’s steps, then at
the water. “Up?” he growled through his teeth. “Or down?”
Shaking and shrinking, Fear-and-Fly made the best of his way up the
ship’s side. Catch-and-Kill followed at his heels, ready with a dirk to
encourage him at the slightest hesitation.
Finally Dare-and-Do reached the top. Leaning against the side, he could
look over into the great ship. Before him stretched, seemingly, a long,
wide deck. He scanned it closely. As far as he could see there was not
a single soul. He listened. Not a sound but Fear-and-Fly’s startled
breathing below.
“Crew’s asleep,” muttered Dare-and-Do.
He turned to the others. “Quiet now,” he warned, “and follow me.”
With dirks drawn the pirates clambered over the side and tiptoed
stealthily across the deck. Dare-and-Do headed for the stern. His idea
was to make way with the crew before taking possession of the ship.
[Illustration: “Up? Or down?”]
“Dirks and daggers!” he exclaimed. Before him opened a yawning abyss. The
deck had come abruptly to an end. Beyond the wide chasm began another
deck, made, seemingly, of a single, tremendous board.
Dare-and-Do turned and ran toward the prow. Again the deck stopped before
an abyss, beyond which another deck began. He understood now. There
was no true deck at all,—simply a succession of immense planks laid at
intervals from side to side.
Fear-and-Fly groaned. “Oh! Oh! Oh!” he screamed hoarsely. “It’s a giants’
ship, a giants’ ship, and the decks are their rowing-seats.”
Catch-and-Kill scratched his dirk remindingly across Fear-and-Fly’s
throat. “Silence!” he hissed.
But Dare-and-Do caught his hand. “Dirks and daggers!” he cried. “But the
coward’s right. It’s a giants’ ship. Look at the mast; look at the sail;
look at the tiller there, far above our heads! A giants’ ship, and not
one of the crew aboard! They won’t be back either, if _I_ know giants.
They’ve landed somewhere for their six months’ sleep. Here’s luck, luck,
luck at last. We don’t have to capture the ship. We’ve _got_ her!”
Catch-and-Kill looked up at the mammoth rigging. “Great luck!” he
sneered. “Great luck! A ship you can’t move! A ship you can’t steer! I
suppose _you’ll_ set the sail; I suppose _you’ll_ turn the tiller; I
suppose _you’ll_ sail her to the Gold Lands!”
Dare-and-Do came a step nearer. “_Who wants the Gold Lands most?_” he
asked meaningly.
Catch-and-Kill started. “You don’t mean the King?” he cried.
“Three hundred builders, three hundred sailors, two hundred days,” said
Dare-and-Do calmly, “and there’ll be enough gold for us all and a little
to spare; eh?”
“Daggers and dirks!” cried Catch-and-Kill, making for the ship’s side.
“Let’s be off to ask him!”
Dare-and-Do dashed after, but Fear-and-Fly (who was as anxious to be off
the ship as he was loth to climb on) was the first over the ship’s rail
and down into their boat.
[Illustration: Waste-and-Want]
Stroke! Stroke! Stroke! Their oars flew through the water. In just half
the time it had taken them to come, the pirates went back to their beach.
Without stopping for food they ran over hill and dale, field and fen,
brook and bog, till they reached the King’s castle.
Now the king of the country at that time was a spendthrift named
Waste-and-Want. Half his time he spent in running into debt, the other
half in imploring his councillors to get him out.
At last one day his councillors came to him. “Your Majesty,” said they
politely, “we have the honor to report that the hundred and one means of
escaping from debt which are recorded in history, have, in your case,
been exhausted.”