the tiled floor, and then commenced to dig out the tunnel. The work
once begun was never allowed to stop; night and day it was taken up by
different bands of workers, the women bringing them food under cover of
the darkness.
Meanwhile, the little school-house presented outside a singularly
deserted and unused appearance. The shutters were closely barred by day
as well as night, and not a living creature was seen to go in or out.
But Kaspar's heart burned within him with pride as he saw the work (in
which he was ever foremost) progressing at a rate which far exceeded
his most hopeful calculations.
It was known, moreover, that the giants had but lately stored away a
large quantity of gunpowder in the dungeons beneath their tower, and
if the workers could but dig their way through the lower foundations,
Kaspar knew that it would only require a lighted fuse, a brave heart
and steady hand, to do all the rest.
At last the anxious miners came tap, tap, against something hard and
firm. It was the stone floor of the castle dungeon. When this fact
became known Kaspar could only restrain his men from shouting aloud
by the threat of shooting the first one, old or young, who opened his
mouth, a threat which they all felt, in the desperate anxiety of the
moment, he was quite capable of carrying out.
So in grim silence the work proceeded, and it was not until the
middle of the night, when he knew that Ruffo and Kuffo would be lying
senseless in a heavy sleep, that Kaspar ventured himself, and with
the greatest care, to remove two of the large paving stones, which
formed the floor of the dungeon. Oh, how his brave heart beat as he
clambered through, and found himself in that gloomy place where so
many of his fellow villagers had languished in tears until the giants
thought fit to eat them. He soon retired, however, cautiously replacing
the stones, but leaving them loose, the night being already too far
advanced to venture to return with the fuse. Before leaving, however,
he was careful to take note of the exact situation of the barrels of
gunpowder, and to have everything in readiness for his next great
attempt.
[Illustration]
All the following day Kaspar was in such a state of feverish excitement
that he did not know what to do with himself; but when midnight came,
and every glimmer of light had died out of the castle windows, he
prepared, with a wildly beating heart, to set out upon his perilous
expedition. On the way, however, it shot through his mind for the first
time that his good friend, the old giant's wife, would probably be
asleep in the castle, and he racked his brains to devise some plan by
which he could enable her to escape the fate prepared for her cruel
sons. Before, however, he could think of anything, he ran by accident
into the arms of the village barber, who was taking advantage of the
pitchy darkness to draw some water from the pump; now the barber was
a gossip, as barbers generally are, and Kaspar's first thought when
he recognized his voice was how to get rid of him at once, but before
he could even attempt to do so, the barber had him by the arm, and
in a loud whisper exclaimed, "Hast thou heard, friend Kaspar, the
last news from up yonder?" pointing thumb over shoulder to the castle
behind. "Didst say no? Know, then, that the giant's wife was seen only
this afternoon by thy humble servant escaping for her life across the
mountains, with her apron to her eyes and weeping as though her heart
would break. She had no one with her but a lame, black dog, and a
little maiden with long, golden curls, who seemed to be clinging to her
dress for protection. Ruffo and Kuffo were throwing darts and stones at
her from the window, and shouting after her with such cruel threats and
taunts, that, 'as I am a MAN!' I would dearly have liked to box their
huge ears!!!"
As he gave utterance to this bold speech, the barber (who, by the way,
was as great a coward as ever breathed), thrust out his chest and shook
his fist at the tower with an air of the greatest audacity; but Kaspar
paid little heed to his grand speeches, he had learnt all that he
wanted to know and was only too eager to get away.
"Forgive me, most worshipful master," he said, "but I must not linger
longer," and before the barber could reply Kaspar had shaken himself
loose and was out of sight.
Now that he was sure of Madame Grimbo's safety, a great load was taken
off the lad's mind, and he had no further scruple about blowing up the
tower. Calling together one or two faithful friends, upon whose courage
and fidelity he could rely, he led the way through the underground
tunnel with rapid and noiseless steps. The little party pressed closely
upon his heels, for where a "hero" leads "few" will refuse to follow.
* * * * * *
The men and women in the village, though they did not know all Kaspar's
plans, had put two and two together until they felt certain that the
critical moment could not be far-off; and, too excited to sleep or
even to go to bed, stood listening at their open windows, straining
their ears for the slightest sound, and holding their breath with such
painful intensity that they could hear their own hearts beating.
Suddenly a terrific roar, like the sound of a hundred thousand cannons,
burst upon their ears, and a cloud of smoke and flame flashed high up
into the air. All eyes were turned towards the castle, which in another
second swayed over on one side and fell into a crumbling heap of ruins!
Kaspar's work was done, and at this sight the villagers could not
restrain their delight, but shouted until every throat grew hoarse with
cries of gratitude for their brave deliverer.
The next moment a rush was made to the school-house door, and as Kaspar
stepped out from the underground passage, safe and sound, but black and
grimy with gunpowder, he was seized and almost pulled to pieces by the
mad and shouting crowd.
"Steady, friends; steady!" cried poor Kaspar, as he was lifted, with
friendly roughness, on to the shoulders of two strapping young millers
and carried out into the open air.
But the Hertzenbergers were too excited to listen; all they could think
of at the moment was that Ruffo and Kuffo were dead and could never
torment them any more, and that Kaspar was the hero to whom they owed
their deliverance.
So, paying no heed to his entreaties to be set down, they carried
Kaspar round and round the village in a kind of triumphant procession,
singing as they did so an impromptu song composed in his honour, which
ran as follows:—
Hurrah! hurrah! hurrah!
Hoch, hoch, hoch!
Ruffo and Kuffo are dead,
Low lies each tyrant's head.
Hurrah! hurrah! hurrah!
By Kaspar's hand so "boldy" slain,
No need to fear them ever again.
Hurrah! hurrah! hurrah!
Never again. No never again.
Hurrah! hurrah! hurrah!
Then cheer our Kaspar's glorious name,
And shout to his undying fame,
Hurrah! hurrah! hurrah!
HOCH, HOCH, HOCH!!!
Then the enthusiasm grew to boiling point. Women and children rushed
out to kiss Kaspar's hands, sobbing, and blessing him as their
deliverer; and tiny sleeping babies were lifted from their cradles and
held up in trembling arms to see the hero of the hour.
The next day the whole of Hertzenberg proceeded in a body to inspect
the smoking ruins, and loud and vehement were the expressions of
gratitude which broke out on all sides when the remains of the two
wicked brothers were discovered in fragments, tightly wedged under a
pile of the heaviest stones.
As for the giant's wife, I have never been able to find out exactly
what became of her, but some old legends say that Kaspar sought her out
after many years and became like a son to her in her old age, when his
own dear mother was dead, and also that he married the golden-haired
child whose life she had saved with her own when she fled in terror
from the castle, which golden-haired child—after that she had grown
into a beautiful lady, and had been espoused by Kaspar for love's dear
sake, and without any portion or dowry—was found to be the long-lost
daughter and heiress of a wealthy Baron, through whose good favour
Kaspar not only inherited a large and ample fortune, but was received
with honour into the most noble and illustrious Order of Knighthood,
and was known henceforth throughout the land as "Sir Kaspar of the
Fearless Heart, the Sworn Enemy of Tyrants, the Defender of the
Helpless, and the Ever-ready Champion of the Injured or Oppressed."
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
Hughie's Mistake.
_BY THE REV. H. C. ADAMS,_
AUTHOR OF "CHERRY STONES," "SCHOOL-BOY HONOUR," &c.
————————
NO one could ever be angry with Hughie, though more than one person
sometimes tried hard to be so. He was for ever losing things which
he ought to have taken care of, insomuch that he went in the family
by the name of "Hue and Cry," by reason of the continual searches
after missing articles of which he was the cause. He hardly ever gave
a message correctly, and often omitted to give it at all, thereby
grievously putting the household out of gear. Sometimes, when orders
had been given to hasten dinner, because some unexpected engagement
had been made to be kept early in the evening, it was found, when the
dinner hour arrived, that the cook had only just put the joint down
to roast, and the family had to make the best meal they could off
cold meat and bread and cheese. Sometimes, when it was arranged to
go out for a sail, or a long drive, and Hughie had been sent to say
that dinner must be put off till eight, it was found, when that hour
arrived, that the fish had been boiled to rags, and the meat roasted to
a cinder, and such of the family as were addicted to good cheer, were
considerably exercised in temper.
But, as has been said, no one could be angry with Hughie. Those who
attempted it, soon desisted. There was grandpapa—he was given to be
peppery, and Aunt Maria was querulous, and under great provocation
they would begin scolding the little boy. On such occasions Hughie
would stand quite quiet, looking with his large round eyes at his
assailant, wondering apparently whether grandpapa would explode like
some firework, or pitying Aunt Maria for the frame of mind into which
she had worked herself, until further persistence in wrath became
impossible, and Hughie trotted off to resume the employment or play in
which he had been engaged, with undisturbed serenity.
One day, Grandmamma Haffenden—Hughie had two grandmamma's, and three
aunts, as well as a great aunt, as the reader will learn—but one day
Mrs. Haffenden was very ill with neuralgia in the eyes. Neuralgia
anywhere is not pleasant; and the eyes are not a desirable place in
which to have it. She could not bear any noise, or much company. Rose
and Violet were allowed to go into her room for two or three minutes,
morning and evening. Grandpapa did the same, though perhaps he stayed
a little longer. Even Aunt Maria was only tolerated for an hour or two
at most. The only person grandmamma wanted to see was Hughie. She asked
for him two or three times a day; and when he was brought in, with his
curly hair, and his hazel eyes, and his little bright face, looking
like the sun coming out from behind a cloud, and he was seated on the
bed, and ran on with his baby prattle, grandmamma declared it did her
more good than all Dr. Murray's medicine, and that Hughie was the best
doctor she ever had. To be sure the dear little fellow was the only
child of Admiral Haffenden's only son, who had been killed in the naval
attack on Sebastopol, and his mother had survived her husband only a
few months; and so Hughie belonged especially to his grandparents, and
his omnipotence in the family was not very much to be wondered at.
The reader has been told that Hughie had two grandmothers. Grandmamma
No. 2, Mrs. Salter, was a widow. She also lived, with an only daughter,
in Wadborough; but they were not as well off as the Haffendens, and had
to put up with a small house on the London Road. The Admiral "had not
been cordial," as Mrs. Salter expressed it, about his son's marriage,
and she fancied that the Haffendens looked down upon her family, and
to her mind "the Salters were as good as the Haffendens any day."
Probably, the real offence was that the Haffendens had more money than
the Salters, and everyone knows that is an offence which it is very
hard to forgive. To do the Admiral justice, it was only at the outset,
before he and his family knew anything of Audrey Salter, that he or
they made any objection to Charlie's choice, and after the marriage
nothing could be kinder than they had all been.
After Audrey's death, when Julia came home from school, the Haffenden
girls had tried to treat her like a sister, and had only desisted when
they found that "Miss Salter," as she chose to be called, wouldn't
have it. The Miss Haffendens were handsomer, better dressed, greater
favourites in society than Julia. When they met at flower shows, and
garden parties, and subscription balls, the Haffenden girls had galore
of partners, and Julia sometimes "sat out;" and if the Haffendens
offered to introduce partners Julia fancied she was being patronised,
and declined, whereupon the Haffendens felt repelled, and were disposed
to be huffy. Everyone knows how this peculiarly obnoxious plant is
apt to grow and choke all good feeling. By Christmas, 18—, there was
a decided coolness between the families, fast developing into an
acknowledged quarrel.
It was the day after Christmas Day, when it was resolved in solemn
conclave that a juvenile party and a carpet dance afterwards should be
given by the Haffendens on Twelfth Day.
"You see, grandpapa," Rose Haffenden had urged, "Hughie has so many
little friends, and such numbers of people have invited him, that we
are bound to make some return; and then, we have been asked to ever
so many balls and dances, and have never asked any of our friends in
return. I really think we are bound to do it."
"Very well, my dear," Admiral Haffenden had answered with a groan,
"what must be, must. Only if we are to ask all our friends, let us be
careful not to leave any out. We haven't had Julia Salter here for a
long time; be sure she is asked."
"We may ask her," remarked Rose, "but she won't come."
"Not come! Why not?" asked grandpapa.
"That I can't tell," answered Rose, "but she won't."
"My dear," said Aunt Maria, "you don't think what you are doing. To
leave her out on an occasion like this, when everyone we know is asked,
is almost the same thing as declining her acquaintance."
"And besides that," added Mrs. Haffenden, "your grandfather always
writes to her on that day, if I am not mistaken. Is not that so,
Christian?"
"Yes," answered the Admiral. "On the morning of the sixth of January
I get the stock dividend, half of which belongs to Hughie and half to
her, and I always send her a ten pound note in the afternoon."
"Just so," said Miss Haffenden. "Think of grandpapa's writing to her on
that day and making no mention of the Christmas party at his house! It
would look like an intentional affront."
"Well then, you had better send her the invitation," said Violet, "only
I agree with Rose, she won't accept it."
At this moment the footman entered with a letter for Mrs. Haffenden.
The old lady glanced through it, and then exclaimed, "Here's
a surprise, Rose, or rather, I am afraid I must say here's a
disappointment. You will just miss seeing your dear friend Adelaide
Mountford."
"Addy Mountford! Oh, mamma, you don't mean it! How delightful! I
thought there wasn't a chance—"
"And I am afraid there isn't now, Rose. She says she and her mother
will be passing through Wadborough on the 6th, and she proposes to come
up here in the evening. But there is our party—"
"She may come in spite of the party. Why not come to it?"
"My dear, you forget. I don't suppose she would have any dress. Her
means have been so reduced that I don't suppose she can afford to go
out to parties. Isn't that so, Christian?"
The Admiral assented rather grumpily. Mrs. Mountford, who was a distant
connection, had made several raids of late on his purse.
"But, mamma, she proposes to come here."
"Yes; but I think that is most likely on business, not pleasure."
"Most likely," observed Admiral Haffenden, still more curtly.
"But, mamma, what do we care about her dress. I declare if that is all
I'll lend her one of my dresses. If we can persuade her, may we do so?"
"Oh yes, Rose, if you like," answered Mrs. Haffenden wearily. "But look
here, you two girls, it is high time that these invitations should
be sent out, or half our intended guests will be engaged. It will be
plenty of time to settle anything about Adelaide when the 6th arrives.
She won't be here till then, and no one knows where she will be betwixt
this and then, so no one can write to her."
There was no denying this. So Aunt Maria and the two girls sat down to
their writing tables, and filled up a vast number of "Admiral and Mrs.
Haffenden at Home, January 6th, 18—. Five o'clock, Christmas Tree and
games. Dancing in the evening. R.S.V.P."
When these had been despatched, there were still endless arrangements
to be made. The dresses they were to wear, the music, the waiters,
the supper, the Christmas Tree, the shifting the furniture—there was
no rest for anybody all day and every day. The girls were heartily
glad when Twelfth Day arrived, and everything seemed to have been
satisfactorily ordered.
"At what time do you expect that Addy will reach Wadborough?" asked
Violet, when early dinner had been concluded, and she and her sister
had retired to the schoolroom—the only place where they had a chance of
having a quiet talk that afternoon.
"I can't tell. Nothing has been heard of her since she wrote to
grandmamma last Friday."
"That is not so," said Violet, "she has written to papa. I know her
handwriting quite well. Indeed, I asked papa if he hadn't heard from
her, and he said, 'yes'—rather shortly I thought."
"These preparations put him out. He'll be glad when the party is over.
But he didn't tell you when Addy was coming?"
"No. But, now I think of it, she must be already in Wadborough. There
was no stamp on the letter. It must have been sent up from the Inn."
"From the Inn? from the 'Greyhound,' where I know they meant to put up?
Is there time to go down to the Inn and see her?"
"I am afraid not, Rose; but we can write, and send the note by Abigail,
when we have done dressing. Sit down and write at once. I'll go up to
papa, and see that he has got everything he wants, or he may come badly
off to-day."
Rose sat down, and began a most plaintive entreaty to her beloved
Adelaide not to leave Wadborough without coming to their party. They
hadn't met for ever so long, and it had been such a distress to them.
Perhaps it was Rose's fault, but if so, she was so grieved that she
did not know how to express her sorrow. Would not her dearest overlook
it? The letter began, "Darling of darlings," and ended, "Ever your
own—Rose."
It was just finished, when there came a tap at the door, and Violet and
nurse came in together.
"Miss Rose, may I leave Master Hugh with you till five o'clock?" said
nurse. "He must be dressed then, and by that time I shall be able
to attend to him; but they want me to dress the Christmas Tree, and
declare it can't be done if I don't do it."
The sisters looked a little put out, but no one ever objected to Hugh's
company, and he was just then looking his very brightest. His curly
locks, ruddy complexion, and laughing eyes formed a study, which would
have added a rose to the chaplet of the renown of Millais himself, if
he had painted him as he appeared at that moment.
"I suppose, Violet, there isn't time for me to take this note to the
'Greyhound,' is there?" asked Rose. "I am sure she would come if she
got it. But I'm half afraid Abigail 'won't' be able to go."
"Abigail? No. That she certainly won't. She has overworked herself, I
suppose. But she is quite ill, and has been sent to bed. Mamma says we
must help one another to dress."
"How very unlucky! How is the note to go? I see it is too late for me
to take it."
"It is unlucky; and it is all the worse because papa wants this note
taken to Aunt Salter's. He says it must go. I don't know who is to take
that either."
"Can't it wait till to-morrow?" asked Rose.
"He says not. He was in a great hurry, and thrust it into my hand,
telling me I must direct an envelope, and send it. I can direct the
envelope, but who is to take it?"
"I can take it, Aunt Violet," said Hugh. "It won't take me above a
quarter of an hour to go to Grandmamma Salter's, and the 'Greyhound' is
still nearer. And it wants three quarters of an hour to the time when
nurse will want to dress me."
"You, Hughie? Do you think you really can be trusted?"
"Oh, yes: you may be sure I shall make no mistake, and I'll be back
again long before nurse wants me."
"Very well, then, you shall take the notes. Have you written the
envelopes, Violet?"
"Yes; they are on the table there."
"Very well. Then Hughie, do you put the notes into the covers, and be
off with them at once. And you and I must go and dress, Violet, or we
shall not be in time to receive the first comers."
The sisters retired to their bedroom, but were so delayed by one
interruption or another that the time for the arrival of the guests
had quite come, and grandmamma, indeed, was downstairs receiving them
before the final touch was put to their toilette. Just as they were
taking a final look in the glass, somebody rapped at the door with the
request, "May I come in?"
"Oh, Violet!" exclaimed Rose, "it is Adelaide, I declare. Come in,
love, we are delighted to see you."
The door opened, and a young lady in evening dress entered the room,
and, running up to Rose, threw her arms round her neck. But it was not
Adelaide Mountford, but Julia Salter!
"O dear Rose," she exclaimed, scarcely able to speak for sobbing, "I
am so ashamed and sorry I don't know how to thank you for your kind,
kind letter. To think, after all my thanklessness, all my rudeness, you
should have written to me so kindly, and entreated me to come to your
party. I don't deserve it, Rose. I don't think anyone in the world but
you and Violet—"
"My dear Julia," said Rose, taking advantage of a fit of sobbing which
prevented her visitor from proceeding, "don't distress yourself in this
way. Neither Violet nor I—"
"No, I know you are too kind and good to have taken offence with me.
But I am sure anybody else would. But if you'll only overlook my past
behaviour I'll never give you cause to complain again."
"I assure you, Julia," said Violet, "neither Rose nor I have ever
complained—"
"I understand that, dear Violet," interposed Julia. "But that is your
goodness; but you shall never—"
At this moment the heavy tread of a man was heard in the passage
outside. The door was pushed sharply open, and Admiral Haffenden, with
a wrathful brow, such as—to do him justice—he seldom displayed, entered
the room. He did not see Julia Salter, and the latter, perceiving, as
the phrase is, that there was thunder in the air, took the opportunity
of slipping out of the room.
"Do you understand what she means, Violet?" asked Rose, too much
bewildered by Julia's protestations to notice her father's demeanour.
"Have you been writing to her and entreating her to come to-night?"
"No," said Violet, "I know no more what she means than you do."
"Do you understand this?" cried the Admiral, angrily, throwing a note
on the table. "Read that out, and tell me if you know anything about
it."
Rose complied. She took up the note and read:—
"Greyhound Inn, Jan. 6th, 18—.
"DEAR, KIND, AND GENEROUS FRIEND,
"How shall I thank you for your unexpected and most munificent gift?
I had not ventured to hope for the fifth part of the sum you have sent
me. This will enable my mother to go to Bournemouth for a month, where
I have no doubt her health will be restored. Believe me, we are truly
grateful.
"Yours deeply obliged,
"ADELAIDE MOUNTFORD."
"Why, papa, you must have sent her Julia Salter's ten pound note!"
"I? I didn't send anything to her. I gave you the note wrapped in
paper, with merely the words, 'From C. H., with the best wishes of the
season,' and told you to address an envelope to her and send it."
"I understand now, papa," said Rose. "This is Hughie's mistake—"
"Hughie's mistake!" interposed her father. "What do you mean?"
"Well, I had written a letter to Adelaide Mountford full of, full of—"
"Full of girl's gush," supplemented her father. "I have no doubt you
did, but what has that to do with Julia's banknote?"
"Why, we could not find anyone to take the notes, and Hughie offered to
do so. We thought there was no harm in his going, and we told him to
put the two notes into the envelopes which were lying on the table and
deliver them. He, I suppose—"
"Put the banknote into Miss Mountford's cover, and your letter into
Julia's—that's what you mean, isn't it?"
"Yes, papa; but the mistake may be set right. You can tell Adelaide
that the banknote was sent to her by mistake—"
"No, I can't do that, Rose. I should be ashamed."
"And I can tell Julia that the letter she received was intended not to
her, but for Adelaide."
"No, you mustn't do that, Rose. Mrs. Mountford is a good woman,
and needs help; and though ten pounds is rather a pull on a man at
Christmas time, she's welcome to it. And as regards Julia, I am too
thankful that the quarrel is made up, and the girl has come to her
senses, to allow any explanation there either. But one thing, Rose, you
call this Hughie's mistake. I don't see that the dear little fellow was
to blame at all. How could he be expected to distinguish between the
two letters?"
"Of course not, papa, one thing is always certain. Whoever may be to
blame, it can't be Hughie."
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
The Fox Family.
A STORY OF THE THÜRINGER WALD.
_BY FANNY BARRY._
————————
IT was the very beginning of the winter time, and in the village of
Ruhla, in the Thüringer Wald, the houses of the one long street were
all getting in their double windows and preparing for the first fall of
snow.
The stores for the winter were laid in, and the children of the
forester—who lived in the corner house, with the great cross-beams
painted brown, and the deep, sloping roof—were playing in their yard
with the old fox "Finklie."
Finklie, who had been chained up there for the last dozen years, had a
comfortable kennel like a dog, and was treated quite as a friend of the
family by Elsie, Lina, and Heinrich Heppenheim.
He had been caught by the forester's men as he prowled about in search
of food for his family, and though at first he repined bitterly at
the fate in store for him, by degrees he had become reconciled to his
lot. Time had softened the remembrance of his wife and little ones in
the comfortable hole under the shadow of the pine trees, and he had
attached himself to the children he had known from babyhood, and who
now filled his heart in the place of his own long-lost family.
"It'll soon be winter now, Finklie," said Heinrich. "I'm glad, for I
want to play with the snow. I wonder if you're glad or sorry?"
"Why sorry, of course," said little Elsie. "He has no warm hole to get
into, like he would have in his own home."
Finklie said nothing, but he understood it all, for he had learnt the
German language when very young. He found it was absolutely necessary
to his safety in a place where traps were always being laid for stray
foxes, and where they were treated as "vermin." It was, therefore,
taught in every well-regulated fox-hole, and even baby foxes could
conjugate their German verbs quite correctly. However, they always
pretended—whenever they were caught—that they could not speak at all,
for they had to swear a most solemn oath to the king of the foxes that
they would never betray their friends; and they very justly thought,
that if the foresters ever knew they could talk, they would soon be
forced to give up all the fox secrets, which have been handed down from
father to son for countless generations in the Thüringer Wald.
While the forester's family were playing with Finklie, a whole fox
family were crowded together in a hollow tree in the very heart of the
forest. It was a nice, out of the way spot, where the forester's dogs
seldom came, and the father, "Fritzlie," as he looked round upon the
children clustered at his knee, congratulated himself on being the
possessor of such a remarkably safe retreat.
"This tree has been in our family for the last fifty years," he said,
proudly. "Never once has it been surprised. See that your guard it, as
your ancestors have done, with your heart's blood!"
The fox father was fond of long words, and rolled them out as if he
enjoyed them. The little foxes were much impressed.
"What arrangements are you making for the winter?" enquired the fox
mother, as she sat by the entrance to the tree, with her knitting
in her hands. Like all Germans, she was industrious; and she was
now particularly busy, for she was finishing off comforters for her
children to wear during the snow-time.
"I have my eye on several houses," replied father Fritzlie,
thoughtfully. "The pipe manufacturer's with the duck-yard, and the
Heppenheims, where my poor father has been so long chained up. They
have chickens by the score, there. Such chickens my little ones. They
will support us through the winter in comfort."
"But how will you get them, my dear?" observed the fox mother,
placidly, as she knitted off her comforter, and tried it on the neck of
the little fox nearest to her.
"Oh, easily enough," replied father Fritzlie, "you have my sack ready
mended, haven't you?"
"Oh yes," said his wife; "but the stuff is rather rotten, it will soon
fall into holes again. I am always begging you to get another."
"It will do well enough for what I want," said the fox father, "give it
to me now. As it is your birthday, Raetellie, my child, I shall bring
home the best of dinners. You can ask Aunt and Uncle Badger to join us.
Good-bye for the present! It looks like a snow-fall, and if so, why all
the better; it will hide my foot-marks."
The fox children lifted up their voices and begged to be allowed to
accompany him, but he smiled upon them in a superior manner, and waved
them away.
"No, no! little ones; stay with your good mother. Leave me to battle
with the world," he said, and throwing the sack over his shoulder,
he put on a hat and overcoat, and bidding his family an affectionate
farewell, had soon disappeared in the green gloom between the tree
stems.
As soon as Fritzlie had disappeared, the fox mother began to tidy
up her house, like a good German house-wife. She swept the floor,
scoured the walls with a dusting brush, made of dried fern leaves, and
sprinkled some camphor over the scarves she had been knitting, which
she laid away carefully in a hole in the ground, with the rest of her
family's winter clothing. She then brushed up the children's hair with
a pine cone, tied a bib-pinafore round each of their necks, and told
them to sit down quietly, and behave nicely until their father returned.
Now, unfortunately, the fox children were very much like other children
in their disinclination to keep still, and no sooner had their mother
put them down in a neat row, with their backs against the wall of the
tree-house, than they began to play about, untidying their hair, and
rumpling their clean bib-pinafores.
"Keep still, children! keep still!" cried the old fox, severely. "What
will your father say? Your know how particular he is."
"Oh, mother," cried Atala, the eldest, "Raetellie has been saying such
funny things. He heard father Fritzlie and the Badger talking yesterday
when they were smoking their pipes."
"Little foxes should not listen at door-holes," said the fox mother,
reprovingly. "However, as you seem to be so very lively, you,
Raetellie, can run and ask Aunt Badger to lend me a little pepper, and
a few coffee beans. I shall be going to the market, at Marientahl, on
Monday, and can return what we borrow. Mind you ask aunt and uncle to
come to dinner this evening, and 'be sure' you are very civil. Aunt
is sometimes a little out of temper this cold weather; she feels the
rheumatism."
Raetellie jumped up and ran off to obey his mother's order, and the
other two children skipped about singing—
"Oh, what good dinners the father fox brings
With the forester's chickens, and other good things.
Aunt Badger and Uncle shall join in the feast,
And however they scold, we won't mind in the least."
"Children, will be children," said the indulgent mother fox as she took
up her needles, and cast on the proper number of stitches for a warm
winter cap, with ear flaps, to protect her eldest daughter.
Meantime, Raetellie ran as fast as he could to the house of the
Badgers. He knocked at the hollow tree; a screen of bushes was pushed
aside, and Aunt Badger's high, thin voice was heard from within.
"Who's that knocking like a hailstorm in winter time?"
From this, Raetellie knew that Aunt Badger was suffering from a severe
attack of rheumatism, so he determined to proceed with great caution.
"It is only me, dear aunt—little Raetellie—come with a message from the
fox mother. I am sorry I disturbed you."
"Come in! come in! I don't expect manners from your family," said the
Badger, sharply. "You've come to borrow something, of course?"
Raetellie looked upon the ground and then round the room in search of
inspiration.
It was a very neat room, with a little dresser facing the door, on
which stood a row of wooden boxes labelled "Mustard," "Spices,"
"Coffee," "Sugar," "Flour," &c. There was also a small table made of
pine wood, and at this stood Aunt Badger, scouring out some wooden
bowls with a new piece of sandpaper.
It was a peculiarity of Aunt Badger's that the more rheumatic she was
the harder she worked, and Uncle Badger generally went out for the day
when she had what she called "a general house-cleaning."
This was evidently the case now, for a tub of water stood by her side
with a large mop in it, and the whole place smelt of soap.
Aunt Badger's tight-fitting black cap hung on a peg on the wall, and
she was enveloped in a large homespun apron, which completely covered
her.
"Some people I could mention are all borrowing, and no lending," she
observed, as she wiped her hands. "Now child, make haste. What do you
want?"
By this time Raetellie had recovered his presence of mind, and he gave
the invitation and asked for the loan of the coffee beans and pepper as
prettily as possible.
Aunt Badger pretended still to be cross, but the idea of a good dinner
did not displease her. Besides this, it would save her all the trouble
of cooking at home; so she went to her spotless dresser and counted out
sixty coffee beans, which she placed in a cabbage leaf, with half an
egg-shell full of pepper, and handed to Raetellie.
"My kind compliments to your mother. We shall be pleased to accept,"
she said in a stately manner. "Do not trouble to return the pepper."
Raetellie started to run back again through the forest, and as he
ran he thought to himself, "I do hope the king of the wolves is not
wandering about anywhere. I know he lives not very far-off. I had
better make haste, for father Fritzlie has often told me how much he
hates us." So he hurried on.
At this moment he heard a sound behind him which made his heart stand
still with fear—a "tip, tap, tip" upon the fallen pine needles. He
looked round apprehensively, and saw a great grey wolf galloping slowly
along. He had a small crown on his head, round a green forester's cap,
from under which his fierce eyes gleamed threateningly.
"The king-wolf! the king-wolf!" cried poor little Raetellie, and
bounded forward, dodging in and out between the trunks of the trees,
with his hair almost standing on end with terror.
"Stop! stop! my child," cried the grey wolf, and darted on to Raetellie
with one bound of his long body. "Come with me to my house, and I will
show you something very nice there."
Raetellie trembled, and looked about for some means of escape, but
there was no help near. He therefore determined, like a brave little
fox, to appear as cheerful as he could and to follow the king-wolf
quietly, trusting that some chance might occur by which he could save
himself.
The grey wolf tied a cord round his captive's neck, and walked on in
front in silence. Raetellie followed meekly behind.
An idea had entered his head which gave him a ray of hope! He opened
the cabbage leaf Aunt Badger had given him, and occasionally threw out
a coffee bean and a little pepper as he went along.
"If only father Fritzlie comes by here," he thought, "he will easily
be able to find out where the king-wolf is taking me to. He will see
the coffee beans and smell the pepper, and perhaps, 'perhaps,' he will
rescue me after all!"
Before they had gone very far it began to snow in light, feathery
flakes—the first snow of the winter—and Raetellie's heart sank, "for
now," he argued, "my beans will be all covered up, and I shall be lost
indeed."
It was a long journey to the home of the grey wolf, who lived in
the midst of some massive rocks on the summit of one of the barest
mountains of the Thüringer Wald. Raetellie shuddered as he saw the
lonely spot, looking grimmer and lonelier than ever under its powdering
of white snow. A smile of pride lighted up the face of the king-wolf.
It had been the residence of his ancestors for uncounted generations,
and the caves were hung with many of the skins of the forest animals
who had been their victims.
The poor little fox made his way into the great hall behind his captor,
who took off his hat, and motioning to Raetellie to follow him, went
into an inner cave. Here he opened a cupboard in the wall, and pushing
Raetellie in, he put a heavy stone against the door, and went off
growling cheerfully.
Fortunately, Raetellie had inherited from his parents the great gifts
of courage and presence of mind, and he managed to throw the last of
his coffee beans, and the egg-shell of pepper, outside the door as it
closed upon him.
While these adventures were happening to Raetellie, father Fritzlie was
walking rapidly towards the village of Ruhla, with his sack over his
shoulders, and his everyday hat tilted very much on one side. His heart
was full of joy and hopefulness, and he whistled merrily as he went
along. "It's going to snow," he said to himself, "but that's all the
better for me. What a dinner the children will have to-night, and we'll
have a dance afterwards. It's wonderful how well Atala begins to do her
steps, and even little Lieblie can manage the 'Rheinländer.'"
He soon reached the outskirts of the village. By this time the snow was
falling quite thickly, and it was beginning to get dark.
How picturesque the houses looked with their windows lighted up, and
the snow settling on their high roofs, showing up the dark wooden beams
that were built into their wall in all kinds of curious patterns.
The forester's house was brightly illuminated, and Fritzlie determined
to go there first, so he crept under the wall till he got near the
hen-house. Then he stood up and listened. Evidently, Finklie was shut
up somewhere, for he was nowhere to be seen.
Elsie and Lina were singing together in the living-room. The salon,
which was only used on festive occasions, was quite dark and
tenantless. "What a mercy it is that the salon windows look-out on to
the hen-house," thought Fritzlie, as he cautiously crept on.
He was generally very fortunate in his enterprizes, but that evening,
fate seemed to be against him.
No sooner did he attempt to get over the wall, than the branch of a
tree, stretching into the yard, knocked his hat off his head, and it
fell with a "crash" on to a glass frame just beneath.
At the sound of the broken glass, all the hens awoke, and cackled
loudly. The cocks crowed, and there was a tremendous commotion in the
hen-house.
The forester's servant had just gone into the dark salon to light
the stove, for a message had come from the wife of the chief pipe
manufacturer, to say that she would have supper with the Frau Forester
that evening, if quite convenient.
As the girl entered the room, she heard the unusual cackling, and threw
open one of the windows to listen.
"Yes! it was certainly true—someone was in the hen-house."
She rushed out of the room, calling to the children to follow her, and
flew towards the scene of confusion.
Father Fritzlie, who had tumbled into the yard when his hat fell off,
attempted to jump over the wall, but on the inside it was too high, and
the great gate was latched.
He looked wildly round, but could see no means of escape. The open
window into the dark salon seemed his only chance.
Picking up his hat, he gave one wild bound across the low window-sill,
and found himself in the forester's best parlour.
What should he do now? He could hear the voices of Gretchen (the maid)
and of little Elsie and Lina as they opened the hen-house door and
looked in anxiously.
Suddenly his glance fell on the great white China stove which filled up
one corner of the room. He ran to it, forced himself in, and managed
very cleverly to close the brass door after him.
When the excitement had subsided, he would creep out again and be off.
It was very cramped and uncomfortable in the stove, but he could still
hear clearly, through a crack, all that was going on outside.
The chickens were gradually quieted, and Gretchen and the children ran
noisily into the house.
There were steps in the room, and then some horrible words, in the
voice of the Frau Forester, fell upon Fritzlie's ear.
"Gretchen, make haste and light the stove."
Whatever would happen to him now? He could almost fancy he felt the
crackling pine cones and the burning of the blazing logs beneath him!
He managed to wriggle round, so that he could put one eye to the crack
in the stove door and look-out.
The window was firmly closed. There seemed to be nothing in the room
beneath which he could hide himself, except a long oak chest which
acted as a kind of window seat.
Seeing that Gretchen had not yet returned with the wood, father
Fritzlie whisked out of the stove door, crept towards the chest, lifted
the lid anxiously, and looked in.
"What a blessing!" he thought. "Nothing in it but the children's
winter cloaks. Ugh! What a smell of camphor!" and he slipped in and
noiselessly closed the lid.
He was hardly settled safely before the Frau Forester came in to watch
that Gretchen did her work properly, and with her came Elsie, Lina, and
Heinrich, on condition that they sat down quietly on the oak chest and
did not move or fidget about.
"This is a terrible position!" thought father Fritzlie. "Fancy if they
remain here all the evening! I am very cramped, and the pepper in
these clothes is beginning really to suffocate me. I shall sneeze in a
moment, and that will be the end of me."
"Tish-ish-yu!" It was a loud, unmistakable sneeze, and the fox trembled
as he heard it echoing.
The Frau Forester looked at Gretchen reprovingly.
"You should not rush about in the snow without a shawl, silly girl,"
she said, reprovingly. "You have evidently caught a bad cold." But
Gretchen did not hear, for she had her head inside the stove door, and
was blowing away as hard as she could at the wood, to make it light
quickly.
"Now children, off to bed!" said the Frau Forester; and, to the great
relief of father Fritzlie, Elsie, Lina, and Heinrich jumped down from
their perch, and ran upstairs to their attic.
"Did you say 'good night' to Finklie?" said Heinrich, as he tucked
himself under his warm eider-down quilt.
"Oh yes," replied Lina. "He is to sleep in the big barn, amongst the
straw, because of the cold"—and she, too, sunk into her white pillows;
and the three children were soon in the land of dreams.
* * * * * *
Poor father Fritzlie! His active brain went over all the possibilities
of escape, until he at last fixed on a plan of action. The wife of
the pipe manufacturer would soon be coming in to supper, and the Frau
Forester and Gretchen would go out to the entrance hall to meet her. He
must then creep out behind them, and hide as well as he could until he
saw an opportunity to slip through the open door.
As he decided upon this, a loud ring at the bell announced the arrival
of the visitor.
Up jumped the Frau Forester and her servant, and ran into the entrance
hall, followed by father Fritzlie, who kept as much as possible in the
shadow of the chair legs.
Gretchen opened the front door, and a stout lady in furs and
flannel-lined galoshes came bustling in, warmly kissing the Frau
Forester on both cheeks.
Now was Fritzlie's opportunity! He glided along, and just succeeded in
scraping by Gretchen's wooden shoes as she was about to fasten up the
door again.
He was safe, and free once more, though he heard a scream from the
servant girl as he galloped away—
She had caught sight of something dark gliding past her, and received a
severe scolding from the Frau Forester for her "nerves and fancies."
Out in the clear moonlight night—for the snow had ceased some time
before—father Fritzlie began to recover, and congratulate himself on
his marvellously narrow escape.
"Ugh! How hot it was in that box," he thought. "I never knew camphor
was so unpleasant before. I quite understand now why moths dislike it
so much!"
Throwing his canvas bag over his shoulder, and keeping well in the
shadow of the houses, he went on till he came to a turning, and then
darted into the fields at the back of the village.
He was afraid of every sound, for his nerves had been severely tried;
and had he not been determined to secure the promised treat for his
children he would have liked nothing better than to trot straight home,
and go to bed.
The pipe manufacturer's house stood up white and silent against the
background of the wooded hills, but Fritzlie heard the barking of
Prinz, the watch dog, and hurried on.
"No ducks to-night," he said to himself. "I don't want to get into
Prinz's clutches!"
At this moment he heard the sound of voices, and, peeping noiselessly
over a wall, he saw the farmer's wife, old Frau Zimmerman, and her
little grandson, toiling along the road just beyond the village, in the
rear of a little wooden cart, drawn by a couple of strong dogs.
The old Frau was warmly wrapped up in a cloth cloak, and had a
bright-coloured handkerchief wound round her head. She had been to the
market at Marientahl, and was returning late because of a call she had
made upon her daughter-in-law, the young Frau Zimmerman, on her way
home.
There were many nice things in the cart, as Fritzlie immediately
noticed, especially some loaves of black bread, and a string of
sausages—for the Frau was very well off—and, yes! could he believe his
good fortune?—a fine large cock in a wicker-work coop, being taken home
to the Frau's chicken-yard!
This was good luck indeed! Fritzlie ran into the wood and gathered a
long thin stick, and as the cart passed under some apple trees that
fringed the road he sprang out, and giving the dogs two blows with the
switch, they started off at a furious gallop, leaving Frau Zimmerman
and her grandson shouting on the snowy pathway.
Father Fritzlie followed the cart briskly, and easily managed to take
out the chicken coop, a loaf of bread, and some sausages, with which he
ran off into the forest as fast as his legs could carry him.
This was a find, indeed! He easily opened the coop door, put the cock
and the other things into his canvas bag, and set off with long strides
for his home.
"What adventures I shall have to tell them," he thought, "but we'll
have a good birthday feast, after all!" and he sped on.
As he neared the well-known spot, he saw Atala and Lieblie watching for
him at the door of the house, and to his surprise, they greeted him
with screams of terror, instead of joy.
"Oh, father Fritzlie Raetellie is lost, and mother is gone to find him.
He went to Aunt Badger's to borrow some coffee beans and pepper, and
has never returned. Uncle Badger says the king-wolf is roaming about,
and may have taken him to one of his castles. What shall we do! What
shall we do?"
Father Fritzlie threw his bag on the ground, and sank down quite
stunned with the terrible intelligence. His darling Raetellie, who was
so clever, and was already learning to be the greatest comfort to him.
It was a crushing blow. However, it would never do to sit down and
grieve about it. It was still quite early, with a brilliant moonshine;
and besides this, the wind had changed, and a rapid thaw had set in.
It would be easier to find any tracks left by the king-wolf, if it was
indeed he, who had carried away poor Raetellie.
Father Fritzlie turned his coat inside out, put on a pair of snow
galoshes, and another hat, and thus, completely disguised, he bade
good-bye to his remaining children, cautioning them not to stir from
home until he returned, and sallied out, with a lantern in his hand, in
the direction of the house of Uncle Badger.
As he walked, he looked most carefully for any marks upon the ground,
and the snow having almost disappeared, he soon discovered two of the
coffee beans, and presently smelt a strong odour of pepper.
"Hurrah!" he cried. "'What' an intelligent child he is! He has
scattered them as he went along," and father Fritzlie followed the clue
with renewed hope.
Here and there, it was a very difficult matter to decide which way to
proceed, for the snow being only half melted had covered up some of
the beans; but Fritzlie's sense of smell was wonderfully acute, and
wherever he could not see the beans, he smelt the pepper. So he went
on, straight as an arrow, for the castle of the wolf-king.
* * * * * *
Meanwhile, the poor fox mother had also started to search for her lost
child; but being in a terrible state of fright and excitement, and also
quite unused to going out by herself, she had lost her way, and was now
wandering round and round in circles, unable to find either her own
home, or any trace of the missing Raetellie.
You can therefore imagine her joy when she saw the gleam of the fox
father's lantern, and cautiously making her way towards it, found, to
her delight, that it was indeed her husband.
At first, father Fritzlie scarcely recognized his wife, and indeed it
was hardly to be wondered at.
Her cloth cloak hung torn and dripping about her, she had lost her hood
and one of her snow galoshes; for she had fallen down a deep slope into
a snow-drift, and had had some difficulty in scrambling out again.
Altogether, a more pitiable object it was impossible to imagine!
Fritzlie cheered her as well as he could, and explained his discovery
of the coffee beans and pepper, and the father and mother set off once
more.
As they neared the bleak hill on which stood the castle of the
king-wolf, Fritzlie covered his lantern with his hat, and begged the
fox mother to remain in the shadow of the rocks and keep perfectly
silent.
He crept up to the door of the cave and listened intently.
A loud snoring came from within.
The king-wolf was evidently asleep, and as he lived by himself and had
no attendants, Fritzlie knew that if he could only pass him without
waking him, it would be comparatively easy to continue his search.
He took off his boots, and crept across the entrance to the room beyond.
A flood of moonlight came in through a rift in the rocks and lighted up
the face of the king-wolf as he lay on a heap of skins in the centre of
the cave.
His forester's hat with the crown round it lay on a stool close by.
Fritzlie could hear his heart beating loudly as he crawled along. The
king-wolf stirred, and turned his head.
"Off with him to the kitchen!" he murmured. "It will be a good stew!"
Evidently he was dreaming of his dinner, and father Fritzlie shuddered
as he thought that perhaps his beloved Raetellie was to provide the
feast.
Just by the sleeping grey wolf, father Fritzlie discovered some more
coffee beans, and outside a cupboard in the wall of the room beyond, he
found the egg-shell and a little heap of pepper.
There was no doubt that Raetellie was concealed somewhere close by.
"Are you in the cupboard, my child?" Fritzlie whispered anxiously,
through a chink in the door.
"Yes! yes! father Fritzlie," replied Raetellie in a low, terrified
voice. "Let me out! let me out at once! It is so dark in here, and I am
so frightened."
"All right, my child. Do not move," cried the fox father, and he ran
out and called his wife.
Now fortunately, the fox mother always carried her needles and thread
in a bag by her side, so that when father Fritzlie had explained what
he wanted her to do, she went into the cave with him, and had soon sewn
the king-wolf up in the skins he was sleeping on without waking him.
Then father Fritzlie ran to the cupboard, and carried Raetellie out
into the open air, where his mother was awaiting him.
The little fox was so enchanted to be free, that he almost danced for
joy as he followed his father and mother down the hill, and into the
shadow of the forest.
As they galloped along they heard muffled roars of rage from the
king-wolf, who had just discovered what had happened.
The fox mother smiled, for she knew her sewing was strong enough to
resist all his struggles!
So this was how it happened that the fox children had their birthday
feast after all!
And what a feast of delight and rejoicing it was!
Aunt and Uncle Badger came to it; the mother fox presided in a
beautiful white apron, and father Fritzlie, in a red necktie, had the
chair of state, and carved the roast chicken.
Aunt Badger brought a cabbage leaf full of coffee beans, and a new
egg-shell of pepper, as an offering of affection to Raetellie; and the
climax of enjoyment was reached when Fritzlie's father appeared upon
the scene, on a short visit to his family. He had managed to unlatch
the barn door, and slip out without anyone observing him.
"Do stay! do stay! grandfather," cried the children when, the dinner
finished, they clustered round the old fox's knee—but Finklie refused
all their invitations.
"You can come and see me sometimes when the Herr Forester is away,"
he said, "but I am too used to my life, and too fond of Elsie, Lina,
and little Heinrich, to leave them now," and before it was daylight he
returned to his comfortable kennel.
As to the wolf-king; as far as I know he is still sewed up, and so
cannot do any more mischief to anyone.
The forester's chickens are safe for the future, for Finklie made
father Fritzlie promise that he would never again attempt to steal them.
The Herr Forester is not so severe upon foxes now, as he used to be,
for Elsie, Lina, and Heinrich, are always begging him to spare them.
This is, perhaps, the reason that father Fritzlie and his wife and
children still live on happily in the hollow tree, and look back with
a certain proud importance upon their adventures in search of the
birthday dinner.
[Illustration]
The Story of a Silver Padlock.
A FRAGMENT.
_BY MRS. A. M. GOODHART,_
AUTHOR OF "THE GIANT FISHERS OF HERTZENBERG."
————————
ONCE, in sweet and sunny Italy, I knew a little lad who fell into evil
ways, and learnt to utter rough and shameful words, such as leave an
ugly stain upon the minds and lips of those who use them, and his
mother was sorely troubled, for she knew that her boy could never grow
up among "the pure in heart," if he sinned so grievously with his
childish lips.
So she thought long and sorrowfully over the matter, and whilst she was
thinking, she fell asleep. And when her long black eyelashes were lying
motionless upon her sweet worn cheeks, a tiny cherub angel, one of the
baby-messengers of Heaven, stole in at the open window, and tenderly
laid a scroll upon her weary eyes. And though she was asleep, she read
the words as if in a dream, and they seemed like these: "Go to the
jeweller, who lives in the Viâ Stradella, and ask him to make a Silver
Padlock for thy Leonardo's lips, lest the ugly words offend again."
The baby-angel had given his message, but before he left, he kissed the
tired mother's cheeks, and the caress awoke her; yet though no scroll
lay there the words shone still before her eyes.
But she was poor, though of gentle birth, and accustomed in her youth
to the golden splendour, and the warm luxuriousness of palaces; that,
however, was all in the past, and now she was but a poor widow, working
with her child for their daily bread; but though food and money did
ofttimes fail them, one blessed thing was "ever theirs," and that was
"love," love so deep, and true, and tender, that nought else seemed to
matter so long as they two were together.
Nevertheless, the heavenly message troubled her; how could she find
money for the Padlock? "Silver in the house there was none; that had
gone long ago," she thought, as she looked round the room with a sigh;
"but stay, where were all those old silver thimbles, pricked into
innumerable holes with many a weary hour's sewing to earn bread for
herself and her child? Ah, there they were, a worn-out heap, too old
and battered for use, but still pure silver; perhaps old Tomasino,
if she begged him, would melt them down for her, and make what she
required, at any rate she must obey the heavenly message, and try."
So at nightfall, when the stars alone gave forth their light, she took
Leonardo by the hand, and led him to the dark musty shop of the old
jeweller. Leonardo asked no questions, he thought that his mother was
going to sell the thimbles for a few scudi; but when she tremblingly
began to say, "A little angel bade me have a Silver Padlock made,
because my child hath learnt to soil his lips with ugly words,"
Leonardo dared not raise his eyes from the ground.
The old jeweller betrayed no astonishment at her strange request. "It
shall be ready to-morrow for the signora," was all he replied, and the
mother and son walked away in the darkness, and silence and night fell
over the earth.
* * * * * *
The morrow came, but the gentle mother never visited the Viâ Stradella
again, and Leonardo, with breaking heart and streaming eyes, dashed in
upon the old bewildered jeweller.
"Give me the Padlock," he cried; "the last thing she did for me. It
shall never leave me as long as I have life."
Then, all in the whirlwind of his passionate grief, he dashed out again
into the quiet street, leaving the old man dazed and trembling.
"I am glad he forgot to pay me," he murmured to himself with faltering
lips and tear-dimmed eyes. "It was her last wish, and life had been
hard to her, but now she is at peace for evermore."
He was very poor and very old, and had hardly the wherewithal to buy
his next meal, but it warmed his lonely heart to know that he had been
kind to one who was now amongst the angels of God.
* * * * * *
As for Leonardo, he took the silver trinket and hung it on a faded
ribbon that had once been hers, and wore it round his neck, as the
years rolled by, in many a fight and many a fray, guarding it ever as
his most precious treasure, his most sacred possession, until upon a
far-off battle-field he lay at rest one summer evening, with a happy
smile upon his quiet face, and his fellow-soldiers, gathering round,
saw the little Silver Padlock on the faded string, resting upon his
sunburnt breast, and with reverent hearts forebore to touch it, taking
it to be a love token, as indeed it had ever been, for what can be a
truer love token than that which keeps the heart pure, and the lips
unsullied in the midst of an evil world?
* * * * * *
Somewhere far away in the shining fields of Paradise that pair of true
lovers, that mother and son, are walking together now. We cannot tell
the joy that fills their souls, or shines in their radiant eyes . . .
Such joy is not for us to know until we too have passed into the
clearer light of the Eternal Day.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
Two Church Mice.
FOUNDED ON FACT.
_BY EMMA WOOD._
————————
CHAPTER I.
ONCE upon a time there lived in a farm-yard, at the bottom of a
corn-stack, a family of mice, consisting of Mr. and Mrs. Mouse, and
seven baby mice. As yet the babies were quite pink, just like little
pigs, but they kept growing and growing, and turning darker and darker,
until at last they were quite the family colour, and nearly as big as
their parents. Well, one day Papa Mouse said to Mamma Mouse—
"My dear, it will soon be time for our children to get their own
living. I think I had better hear what their wishes for the future are,
and give them some advice." So he called his children round him, and
thus began—
"Sons and daughters, your mother and I think you should begin to work
for yourselves, and I should like to hear if you have formed any plans
before I proceed to give you my advice. Hop and Pop, as you are the two
eldest sons, speak first."
Then up started Hop and Pop, and said promptly—
"Father, we have talked this matter over, and we have both decided to
go into the Church!"
"My sons," said their father, "I am sorry to hear it, as Church mice
are proverbially poor. I should strongly advise you all to stick to
farming, especially the corn-growing branch of it. With good management
mice can live comfortably, and bring up large families, if they will
only be content with their station; but mice that aspire to the Church
always end in being starved."
Then the rest of the family spoke, and expressed themselves quite ready
to follow their father's advice, but Hop and Pop were bent on having
their own way, so in a short time they said "good-bye" to their loving
parents, and kissed their brothers and sisters, and went away to begin
the battle of life for themselves.
They started for a beautiful old Church that stood near, and when they
reached it the bells were ringing, and people going in at the door, and
amongst them a lady holding a little girl by the hand, who instantly
caught sight of the brothers, and screamed, "Look, mammy—'two mouses!'"
Hop and Pop were so terrified that they immediately hid themselves in
the grass, so that the little girl's mother did not see them. There
they stayed, trembling, until all the people had come out of Church
again, and they saw the Rector and his sister go away, and last of all,
the clerk lock the door, carrying the keys with him. Then they began to
breathe more freely.
"Now Hop," said Pop, "we must begin to get our own living, so come
along."
So away they went, and managed to squeeze under the bottom of the big
door, and then ran into the middle aisle, and looked round.
"Oh my!" said Hop, "won't we have fun though? This is a great deal
better than a farm-yard."
And then they played hide and seek amongst the basses, and in and out
the pews, and scampered up and down the aisles until at last they were
quite tired out, and sadly in want of their supper besides.
"Now," said Pop, "it is time we found something to eat; there must be a
good larder somewhere, as so many people come to Church; so you go and
look for it one way, and I will go another."
Pop ran as far as the east window, but Hop only got as far as the
pulpit, which he mounted, and there he found "food for reflection,"
but it was some little time before he found food for his supper; but
at last, as he kept getting higher and higher, he alighted on the top
of one of the candlesticks, so he sat up, and began to nibble away
at the candle until he had made quite a good meal; but just as he
had finished, and was thinking of calling his brother to share his
feast, he heard a jingling of keys, and then two people came into the
Church, but as it was now "pitchy" dark, he could only cling to the
candlestick, trembling and quaking.
Presently a match was struck, and then Hop saw from his eminence that
the intruders were the Rector and his boy George, and also saw, with
terror, that they were making for the pulpit! So down he came in a
jiffy, and hid himself in the first place that came handy, and that
happened to be the harmonium, which stood under the pulpit, and there
he lay panting behind the pedals, thinking—
"I'm quite safe here until they are gone again"—but, horror of horrors!
instead of the Rector going up into the pulpit he came straight to the
harmonium, and took hold of one end, and George the other, and the poor
little mouse found himself being carried out of the Church, out into
the churchyard, out into the road, then into the rectory garden, then
into the rectory, and finally deposited in the hall, and there the
Rector and George left it for a short time.
"Now," thought Hop, "now's my time to run;" so run he did, but,
unluckily, just as George was returning, who caught sight of him before
he could hide himself. George made a grab at him, but missed him, as he
squeezed himself under the study door; but George was like a cat for a
mouse, he did not mean to be beaten, so he opened the study door, and
on a low chair near the fire sat the Rector's sister, Peggy, who looked
round to see who had come in, and George began excitedly—
"If you please'm, there's a mouse just come into the room'm—"
"Oh, George, you don't say so! 'Where' is it?" And she instantly got up
and jumped on to the highest chair she could see, gathering her dress
round her.
"Are you 'quite' sure you saw one?"
"Yes'm, I'm sure'm, and it came out of the harmonium."
Enter the Rector. "'What's' the matter now?" he said.
"Why sir, there's a mouse, sir."
Well, I'm ashamed to tell you that the Rector was almost as much afraid
of a mouse as his sister was, but he put on a brave look, and screwed
his courage to the sticking point, and said manfully, "'Where,' George?"
"If you please, sir, it went behind the book-shelves."
Then the housekeeper was called to help to move them, but the united
efforts of the household were futile to stir them, so, for the present,
Hop was safe. Then the housekeeper spoke up and said—
"'I' know what 'I' should do."
"What should 'you' do, Mrs. H—?" said the Rector and Peggy
simultaneously, truth to tell glad of any suggestion.
"Why 'I' should give it some 'supper,' sir, that's what I should do."
(Well, Hop heard this from behind the book-shelves, and he thought
"what a nice 'kind' woman the housekeeper is"), and Peggy exclaimed—
"'Supper!' then I'm sure I dare not sit here—why it will perhaps be
climbing up my dress, and I'm certain if it did, I should go into a
fit."
"Oh'm," said the housekeeper, "it won't come out whilst you are
here—you need not be afraid; but when you and the master go to bed,
I'll mix it some 'nice' supper." And she smiled benevolently, and
looked so beaming and good-looking, that if Hop could only have seen
her, he would have felt quite satisfied that he had "one" friend, at
a rate, on his side. But alas for appearances! The matter was left in
Mrs. H—'s hands, and she left some nice-looking supper on a bit of
paper on the study floor, and then they all retired to rest.
When everything was quite still, as still as any mouse could desire,
and dark besides, our friend Hop began to feel less agitated, and he
had already made a plan that he would first get the supper the kind
housekeeper had prepared, and then he would creep into the harmonium
again, and be carried back to the Church the same way as he had been
carried from it. Well, very cautiously he emerged from his hiding
place, meaning to have a hunt for his supper, but he found it close to
the book-shelves, so without more ado, he began to eat; but hardly had
he tasted it, when he turned very dizzy, and then was seized with a
violent pain. Suddenly, he thought to himself, "that 'wretched' woman!
I do believe she has put 'poison' in my supper! 'I'm a dead mouse;' but
she shan't have the satisfaction of finding me dead!" And with that he
just managed to crawl back, and in a very short time "died." And that
was the end of one Church mouse.
Take advice from parents,
Children great and small,
Or 'sure as a gun' you'll often run
Your heads against a wall.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
CHAPTER II.
HAVING followed the career of one Church Mouse to its sad end, let us
go into the Church again, and see what our other little friend Pop is
doing. I think we left him hunting for provender, having parted from
his brother in the nave. First of all, he ran as far as the Altar, then
up the curtains, then on the super-altar, and vainly tried to climb
the tall candlesticks, thinking if he could only reach the candles,
he should make a grand supper; but in that respect, he was not so
fortunate as his brother, for though he kept trying again and again,
the shining brass afforded no hold for his claws.
By this time, he was very hungry and faint, so in despair, he began to
attack the flowers in the vases, making a "great" litter, but a "very
poor" supper.
After that, he crept behind the Dossal and forgot his woes in sleep.
The next day being Saturday, the Rector's sister came into the Church
to rub up the brass Cross, and to put fresh flowers in the vases;
but as soon as she saw the litter on the Altar, she exclaimed in
consternation—
"Why I do believe there has been a mouse here, too! Whatever shall we
do to get rid of the mice?"
Then she fetched her brother, and the housekeeper, and George, to see
if they could find the culprit; but Pop, true to his name, had popped
quite out of sight.
"'I' know what 'I' should do," said the housekeeper.
"What should 'you' do, Mrs. H—?" said both the Rector and his sister in
a breath.
"I should give them some supper, to-night," and she smiled a loud smile
from ear to ear.
"Well, Mrs. H—," said the Rector, "as you are cook, I think we will
leave the matter in your hands, and mind you make the supper nice and
tasty."
"I will, sir, it shall be as nice as 'I' can make it."
Then they all left the Church, and Pop came from his hiding place,
feeling dreadfully frightened, and also very miserable because he did
not know what had become of his brother, and so hungry he could hardly
run. He thought if he could only find the door, he would certainly
try and make his way back to his family; but he could not remember in
what direction the door lay. At last he alighted on the crimson velvet
kneelers on the Altar step, and thinks he to himself—
"These 'smell' good. I will eat through the covering, and there's bound
to be something nice inside—may be there will be some 'cheese.'"
Animated by this hope, he nibbled and nibbled, and scratched and
scratched at the stuffing, until he had made a hole big enough to
hide half-a-dozen mice. Just then, what do you think? he heard first
the rattling of keys, then footsteps, and then voices, and the Rector
and his sister stood within half-a-yard of his hiding place! Well,
what could Pop do but lie very still? and he did it; but the Rector
immediately caught sight of the hole in the cushion, and exclaimed—
"Peggy, look here! Actually, a mouse has eaten a hole quite through the
velvet, and a great deal of the stuffing besides!"
"'What's' to be done?"
She gazed speechless for a quarter of a minute, and then said
cheerfully—
"I shall have to mend it, or in the words of the poet—
"'What's amiss I'll strive to mend,
And endure what can't be mended.'
"But this can be mended, so I'll fetch my workables at once." So away
she went, and very soon brought back velvet, and stuffing, and needle,
and thread.
Well, poor Pop heard every word that was said, but he only crept a
little further into the cushion, paralysed with fear, and expecting
"every moment to be his next."
Then Peggy came, and began pushing handfuls of soft stuffing into the
hole, so that, of course, our poor little friend could not have run
away then, even if he had dared.
At last all was neatly finished, and they left the Church.
Then Pop tried to turn himself in his living tomb, but Peggy had done
her work too well for him to escape at his ease. So he lay very still,
"thinking." All his father's wise sayings came into his mind, and
amongst them was this—"Never say die."
"Well," thinks he to himself, "I'm not dead yet, for certain, and
father used to say that adversity was sent to try what sort of material
people were made of. Surely no mouse was ever in a stranger fix than
myself! but I won't say die, and I'll prove to all mousedom that I'm a
mouse of mettle."
So thereupon he began to scratch and scratch, and nibble and nibble,
until he had quite eaten through Peggy's neat patch, and found himself
once more in daylight. Then he made straight for the big door at which
he and his brother had entered, and the next thing that happened, he
was in the churchyard, and then—"Home, sweet home."
His appearance was so altered since he had left his family that none
of them knew him. He had left home a fine, athletic young mouse, and
he returned a broken-down, poor gentleman mouse; but when the first
surprise was over, he was received with open arms, and no word of
reproach.
Then, after he had had a good meal, he told his tale. He did not spare
himself at all, but acknowledged that all their misfortunes had come
upon them because they would not take advice from their excellent
father, but he humbly hoped that he had learnt a lesson, and for the
time to come he would try to be a "wiser," if a sadder mouse.
I must just add that when Peggy found that all her stitches had been
in vain, and that she had unwittingly sewed the mouse up in the
kneeler, and that it had eaten its way out, instead of being angry,
she exclaimed, "Well, I never heard of such a plucky little mouse in
my life. It 'deserves' to get away, and I'm 'glad' it did; but I shall
have to mend the hole up again, by-the-bye." So she did, and this time
effectually.
[Illustration]
The New Master.
_BY S. BARING-GOULD, M. A.,_
AUTHOR OF "MEHALAH," "JOHN HERRING," "COURT ROYAL," &c., &c.
————————
I AM a little girl. I never was a little boy, as far as I can
recollect, and I hope I never shall be, for I think little boys are
rough and greedy, and wear out their clothes faster than girls. But
here is one thing I should like to be a boy for, and that is to have
pockets. I have only one in my frock. Boys have two in their trousers,
and one at least in their jackets. Johnny Phillips had got a great
coat, and that has got two, one on each side, then there is one on his
breast coat side, and one inside, and he has the same three that other
boys have. That makes:—
2 pockets in the skirt of great coat.
1 " " breast " " outside.
1 " " " " " inside.
2 " in his trousers.
1 " " jacket.
And he stuffs his pocket handkerchief up his sleeve, so that counts for
a half. That makes 2 + 1 + 1 + 2 + 1 + ½ that makes 7½ pockets.
I love my papa dearly. Also I love my mamma. I love my sister Jane,
and sometimes my sister Mary. I love my aunt Fanny very much, she
gave me a box of candied plums on my birthday. I like my governess,
sometimes; but sometimes she gives me smacks. When she gives me smacks,
I don't like her. We had some nice people lived next door; their name
was Jones. Mr. Jones was a very gentle and sweet sort of man, and Mrs.
Jones was middling. They had a great many children, I think twelve, or
it may have been a baker's dozen, I mean thirteen. Mr. Jones never knew
exactly. When asked, he looked puzzled, and rubbed his nose, and said
he thought it was about a dozen, taken all in all. The Joneses didn't
keep a governess. We did. We were very superior people to the Joneses.
Our name is Brown, and B comes a long way before J in the alphabet, so,
of course, we were altogether a chop above them, as Jane says.
They did a lot of crying in their house, did the Joneses. I don't mean
Mr. and Mrs., but the children. The nursery was all over the house, the
children got everywhere, and when Mr. Jones wanted to do his accounts,
and to think of his prospects, he went into the nursery, because he was
sure to be left alone there. The children didn't like the nursery, and
screamed when taken there. So they were allowed to go everywhere else,
and Mr. Jones had it to himself as a sort of study.
The Joneses, my papa said, were in bad circumstances. I have heard the
servants say that they did not pay their butcher's bills regularly. I
didn't mean the babies, but Mr. and Mrs. Jones. That explains what Jane
meant when she said they were a chop behind or below us; she meant that
we paid for our chops and they didn't, and so we were sometimes a chop,
and even more ahead of them, for they couldn't get the butcher to send
them a new chop when they hadn't paid for the last one.
At last things got very bad there, and they became bankup, I think the
nurse said, I know it was something like hiccup, and there was a nasty
dirty man, who smelt of tobacco, stuck into the house, and he ordered
all about, and had his food taken to him in the sitting-room, and
smoked, and had mugs of porter in the best bedroom, and stretched his
legs out and stuck his dirty boots one on each side of the ormolu clock
on the drawing-room chimney-piece. They said he was a bailiff, and that
he made himself master in the house.
Mr. Jones went about more sweet and gentle than ever, and sniffed
every now and then; nothing can be imagined more meek, and gentle,
and forbearing, and suffering, than he was. But then he was no longer
master of the house. The bailiff was. He sat at the nursery window,
and tried to keep the children there, but they cried, and kicked, and
screamed; they wanted to go and see the bailiff, but the bailiff didn't
want to see them, so Mr. Jones sat on a stool, the nurse's stool, on
which she used to sit when tubbing the baby; but they had no nurse any
more, because they were bankups. The nurse had gone away, and had not
been paid her wages. And so Mr. Jones sat at the window and looked out
and sniffed, and all the children squalled and kicked. It was very
terrible to think of, that house and all these children, and the ormolu
clock, and the antimacassars, and the lawn mowing machine, and Mrs.
Jones, and the parrot, and the umbrella stand, all had a new master in
the house—that horrible bailiff. Then there came a sale, and nearly
everything was sold, except Mr. and Mrs. Joneses toothbrushes, on which
papa said a fancy price was set, and they were bought in by some rich
relative of the family. Papa said perhaps they were heirlooms.
It was all very miserable. After that Mr. Jones went away, and sniffed
piteously as he went. Mrs. Jones went after him, and Mr. Jones carried
the baby, and Mrs. Jones carried the last baby but one, and then after
Mrs. Jones came ten children, or eleven, I cannot say which. I was as
uncertain as was Mr. Jones, because, you see, they never would keep
quiet in one place for me to count them, but bobbed about here and
there, and put one out in reckoning.
My dear mamma was not very well at the time, and was much upset at all
this. She was so kind, she would have helped Mr. and Mrs. Jones if she
could, but papa said they were past help. The only way was to buy that
horrid tobackerish man out of the house, and it would cost a lot of
money to do that, and next year he would be there again, and Mr. Jones
would never be a twelvemonth master in his house.
I was sent away soon after to school, mamma was not well, and wished
it; and my sister Jane and Mary went with the governess somewhere for a
little holiday trip. I thought it very hard that when they went for a
holiday I should have to go to school. I fancy that the governess, Miss
Smith, could not manage to teach my sisters and me together, for they
were a tremendous awful way ahead of me, and if Miss Smith had to be
doing what are called equations with Jane, and compound fractions with
Mary, and then with me to come to simple addition and multiplication;
or be doing the celestial globe, or one hemisphere with them, and come
down to the terrestrial globe, or at a stride to the other hemisphere
with me, it would be too great a jump, and she might strain her back,
and have to lie on a board like one of the elder Joneses, till the
board was sold at the auction and went for four and sixpence.
I was sent to school, and I was very unhappy there at first, it was
all so new and so strange to me. I wanted mamma to come and kiss me
when I was in bed; and then I couldn't have jam on my bread always at
tea, as I did at home. They did not set me very hard lessons to do at
first, but they were not out of the books I had at home. At home, when
I had done a sum, then I could suck my slate pencil and look-out of
the window, or play with puss, till Miss Smith had done with Jane or
Mary or both, so I had a good long rest after each effort I made to add
numbers together. But at school I was kept sharp at work, and when I
had done one sum was set another; and when I had written one line in
my copy book, I was not allowed to run to the teacher and tease her
to look at it and say it was beautiful, before I went on to write the
second line.
I did not like the cat either. It had been white once, but it was not
well cared for, or did not care for itself properly, and it always made
me think of Mr. Jones, it had such a way of screwing up its nose, just
as he did when he sniffed. Often when I was alone in my bed I thought
about the Jones family, and how terrible it was for them to have that
nasty man put into the house, ordering them about, eating their food,
drinking their stout, and acting as their lord and master.
One day, about a fortnight after I had gone to school, I had a letter
from Aunt Fanny.
This is her letter.
"MY DARLING TOOTSIE,
"What do you think? What will you say, my sweet pet? Strange things
have happened since you went away. It is perhaps well that you are not
at home now, nor Jane, nor Mary, for the house has been quite turned
topsy-turvy.
"I can hardly think you will believe your old auntie when she tells
you that a NEW MASTER has invaded the house, and holds sovereign sway
there. He is a perfect tyrant. What he wants he yells for, and it
must be given him at once. Never was there seen anyone more exacting
and despotic. Your mamma is ill, but perhaps she is as well as might
be expected under the circumstances. As for your dear papa, he is
nowhere—simply nowhere. I also am made a slave of this tyrant, and all
the servants are kept dancing attendance on him.
"Good-bye, my sweetest pet,
"Ever your doting aunt,
"FANNY."
There! I uttered a cry, and burst into tears. It had come about in our
dear, dear home as it had in that of the Joneses. There was the same
horrible tobackerish man in our beautiful drawing-room, putting his
legs up on our mantelshelf, where was such a sweet bit of embroidered
vandyke work mamma had done, with sunflowers on it.
O my mamma! my mamma! I threw myself on the floor and sobbed.
The teachers came to me and told me not to cry. They asked me what
was the matter, but I could not, I would not, tell them that a horrid
tobackerish bailiff as a new master was in our home, our sweet home;
that my own darling papa was now nowhere—I suppose had run away; that
the servants—dear Martha, who always gave me a lollipop whenever I went
into the kitchen, and Susan, who had such funny stories to tell me, all
were trampled under foot by this cruel, tyrannical, nasty tobackerish
monster.
What did Aunt Fanny mean by saying papa was nowhere? Did she mean
that he was dead, or that he was running away? That little boy in
Struvelpeter who went out in the wind and rain with a big umbrella was
carried off by the wind, getting smaller and smaller, till he smalled
to a pin's head, and then was nowhere—was darling papa going, or gone,
like that little boy?
I sobbed and cried all night. I could eat nothing next day, I was so
unhappy. I thought how my poor mammy must suffer with that new master
roaring for his stout and pipe, and beefsteaks and potatoes, and just
what he liked, and setting down his porter pot on mamma's polished
piano, and puffing his smoke into the cage where are Jane's canaries.
Then a new idea came into my head. I remembered that that nasty man,
the bailiff, could be bought off. I had heard my father say as much,
that the only way to be rid of him was to give him money. So I pulled
out my purse, a sweet little purse that Aunt Fanny had given me on my
birthday, and in it was a jubilee florin, all of silver, quite bright,
like our spoons at dinner. I had also a fourpenny bit that Miss Smith
had given me, and a sixpence from mamma, and another sixpence from
papa, and that made—
1 Jubilee florin
1 Fourpenny bit
2 Sixpences
—
4 Shillings; no, five sixpences—no, I can't do it, as I am not yet
in compound addition.
I dried my tears and asked one of the school mistresses how much money
it was, and she said three shillings and fourpence. But I had a wax doll
that had blue eyes which rolled, and when you squeezed its stomach it
said "Pa!" I thought I would sell it, so I offered it to all the girls
in the school, and one girl gave me tenpence for it, and a button that
had sparkling sort of stuff on it. That increased my store to four
shillings and twopence. I thought if I could only get a little more and
make up five shillings I might be able to buy out the odious man, and
then perhaps my darling papa might come sailing down to us out of nowhere,
and mamma might get better. But the head mistress of the school heard
that I was selling my toys and my pink sash, and she was very angry,
and called me to her, and asked me what I was about. When I was asked
I was obliged to answer, for papa and mamma would not wish me to disobey,
and certainly not to tell an untruth, so I said, "Please, Miss Tomkins,
papa is bankrup', and there's a nasty beastly—"
"Hush, don't say beastly."
"A horrid, awful, tobackerish bailiff in the house, and mamma is ill,
and papa has run away, and is—and is—is—is—is Nowhere!" Then I burst
into tears, and I thought my heart would break.
When I looked up I saw Miss Tomkins looking almost green. She called to
her an attendant, and said she must at once send a telegram to have me
removed. I was too delicate, too unsuited to scholastic life, to remain
any longer under her charge.
I found Miss Tomkins rather stiff towards me after that; she did not
seem to pity my darling mother for having that dreadful creature in
the house, nor my father for having been blown away into nowhere,
but rather to pity herself for having taken me in, the child of such
distressed and afflicted parents.
Next day I was sent off to the station, and committed to the guard, who
put me out on the platform at the town where is my home. There was Aunt
Fanny waiting for me. I uttered a cry, and flew to her arms.
"Oh, auntie! auntie! Is he still there?"
"Who, darling?"
"The—the—new master?"