THE GOLDEN KEY.

There was a boy who used to sit in the twilight and listen to his

great-aunt's stories.

She told him that if he could reach the place where the end of the

rainbow stands he would find there a golden key.

"And what is the key for?" the boy would ask. "What is it the key of?

What will it open?"

"That nobody knows," his aunt would reply. "He has to find that out."

"I suppose, being gold," the boy once said, thoughtfully, "that I could

get a good deal of money for it if I sold it."

"Better never find it than sell it," returned his aunt. And then the

boy went to bed and dreamed about the golden key.

Now, all that his great-aunt told the boy about the golden key would

have been nonsense, had it not been that their little house stood on

the borders of Fairyland. For it is perfectly well known that out of

Fairyland nobody ever can find where the rainbow stands. The creature

takes such good care of its golden key, always flitting from place to

place, lest anyone should find it! But in Fairyland it is quite

different. Things that look real in this country look very thin indeed

in Fairyland, while some of the things that here cannot stand still for

a moment, will not move there. So it was not in the least absurd of the

old lady to tell her nephew such things about the golden key.

"Did you ever know anybody find it?" he asked one evening.

"Yes. Your father, I believe, found it."

"And what did he do with it, can you tell me?"

"He never told me."

"What was it like?"

"He never showed it to me."

"How does a new key come there always?"

"I don't know. There it is."

"Perhaps it is the rainbow's egg."

"Perhaps it is. You will be a happy boy if you find the nest."

"Perhaps it comes tumbling down the rainbow from the sky."

"Perhaps it does."

One evening, in summer, he went into his own room, and stood at the

lattice-window, and gazed into the forest which fringed the outskirts

of Fairyland. It came close up to his great-aunt's garden, and, indeed,

sent some straggling trees into it. The forest lay to the east, and the

sun, which was setting behind the cottage, looked straight into the

dark wood with his level red eye. The trees were all old, and had few

branches below, so that the sun could see a great way into the forest;

and the boy, being keen-sighted, could see almost as far as the sun.

The trunks stood like rows of red columns in the shine of the red sun,

and he could see down aisle after aisle in the vanishing distance. And

as he gazed into the forest he began to feel as if the trees were all

waiting for him, and had something they could not go on with till he

came to them. But he was hungry, and wanted his supper. So he lingered.

Suddenly, far among the trees, as far as the sun could shine, he saw a

glorious thing. It was the end of a rainbow, large and brilliant. He

could count all the seven colours, and could see shade after shade

beyond the violet; while before the red stood a colour more gorgeous

and mysterious still. It was a colour he had never seen before. Only

the spring of the rainbow-arch was visible. He could see nothing of it

above the trees.

"The golden key!" he said to himself, and darted out of the house, and

into the wood.

He had not gone far before the sun set. But the rainbow only glowed the

brighter: for the rainbow of Fairyland is not dependent upon the sun as

ours is. The trees welcomed him. The bushes made way for him. The

rainbow grew larger and brighter; and at length he found himself within

two trees of it.

It was a grand sight, burning away there in silence, with its gorgeous,

its lovely, its delicate colours, each distinct, all combining. He

could now see a great deal more of it. It rose high into the blue

heavens, but bent so little that he could not tell how high the crown

of the arch must reach. It was still only a small portion of a huge

bow.

He stood gazing at it till he forgot himself with delight--even forgot

the key which he had come to seek. And as he stood it grew more

wonderful still. For in each of the colours, which was as large as the

column of a church, he could faintly see beautiful forms slowly

ascending as if by the steps of a winding stair. The forms appeared

irregularly--now one, now many, now several, now none--men and women

and children--all different, all beautiful.

He drew nearer to the rainbow. It vanished. He started back a step in

dismay. It was there again, as beautiful as ever. So he contented

himself with standing as near it as he might, and watching the forms

that ascended the glorious colours towards the unknown height of the

arch, which did not end abruptly, but faded away in the blue air, so

gradually that he could not say where it ceased.

When the thought of the golden key returned, the boy very wisely

proceeded to mark out in his mind the space covered by the foundation

of the rainbow, in order that he might know where to search, should the

rainbow disappear. It was based chiefly upon a bed of moss.

Meantime it had grown quite dark in the wood. The rainbow alone was

visible by its own light. But the moment the moon rose the rainbow

vanished. Nor could any change of place restore the vision to the boy's

eyes. So he threw himself down upon the mossy bed, to wait till the

sunlight would give him a chance of finding the key. There he fell fast

asleep.

When he woke in the morning the sun was looking straight into his eyes.

He turned away from it, and the same moment saw a brilliant little

thing lying on the moss within a foot of his face. It was the golden

key. The pipe of it was of plain gold, as bright as gold could be. The

handle was curiously wrought and set with sapphires. In a terror of

delight he put out his hand and took it, and had it.

He lay for a while, turning it over and over, and feeding his eyes upon

its beauty. Then he jumped to his feet, remembering that the pretty

thing was of no use to him yet. Where was the lock to which the key

belonged? It must be somewhere, for how could anybody be so silly as

make a key for which there was no lock? Where should he go to look for

it? He gazed about him, up into the air, down to the earth, but saw no

keyhole in the clouds, in the grass, or in the trees.

Just as he began to grow disconsolate, however, he saw something

glimmering in the wood. It was a mere glimmer that he saw, but he took

it for a glimmer of rainbow, and went towards it.--And now I will go

back to the borders of the forest.

Not far from the house where the boy had lived there was another house,

the owner of which was a merchant, who was much away from home. He had

lost his wife some years before, and had only one child, a little girl,

whom he left to the charge of two servants, who were very idle and

careless. So she was neglected and left untidy, and was sometimes

ill-used besides.

Now, it is well known that the little creatures commonly called

fairies, though there are many different kinds of fairies in Fairyland,

have an exceeding dislike to untidiness. Indeed, they are quite

spiteful to slovenly people. Being used to all the lovely ways of the

trees and flowers, and to the neatness of the birds and all woodland

creatures, it makes them feel miserable, even in their deep woods and

on their grassy carpets, to think that within the same moonlight lies a

dirty, uncomfortable, slovenly house. And this makes them angry with

the people that live in it, and they would gladly drive them out of the

world if they could. They want the whole earth nice and clean. So they

pinch the maids black and blue, and play them all manner of

uncomfortable tricks.

But this house was quite a shame, and the fairies in the forest could

not endure it. They tried everything on the maids without effect, and

at last resolved upon making a clean riddance, beginning with the

child. They ought to have known that it was not her fault, but they

have little principle and much mischief in them, and they thought that

if they got rid of her the maids would be sure to be turned away.

So one evening, the poor little girl having been put to bed early,

before the sun was down, the servants went off to the village, locking

the door behind them. The child did not know she was alone, and lay

contentedly looking out of her window towards the forest, of which,

however, she could not see much, because of the ivy and other creeping

plants which had straggled across her window. All at once she saw an

ape making faces at her out of the mirror, and the heads carved upon a

great old wardrobe grinning fearfully. Then two old spider-legged

chairs came forward into the middle of the room, and began to dance a

queer, old-fashioned dance. This set her laughing, and she forgot the

ape and the grinning heads. So the fairies saw they had made a mistake,

and sent the chairs back to their places. But they knew that she had

been reading the story of Silverhair all day. So the next moment she

heard the voices of the three bears upon the stair, big voice, middle

voice, and little voice, and she heard their soft, heavy tread, as if

they had had stockings over their boots, coming nearer and nearer to

the door of her room, till she could bear it no longer. She did just as

Silverhair did, and as the fairies wanted her to do: she darted to the

window, pulled it open, got upon the ivy, and so scrambled to the

ground. She then fled to the forest as fast as she could run.

Now, although she did not know it, this was the very best way she could

have gone; for nothing is ever so mischievous in its own place as it is

out of it; and, besides, these mischievous creatures were only the

children of Fairyland, as it were, and there are many other beings

there as well; and if a wanderer gets in among them, the good ones will

always help him more than the evil ones will be able to hurt him.

The sun was now set, and the darkness coming on, but the child thought

of no danger but the bears behind her. If she had looked round,

however, she would have seen that she was followed by a very different

creature from a bear. It was a curious creature, made like a fish, but

covered, instead of scales, with feathers of all colours, sparkling

like those of a humming-bird. It had fins, not wings, and swam through

the air as a fish does through the water. Its head was like the head of

a small owl.

After running a long way, and as the last of the light was

disappearing, she passed under a tree with drooping branches. It

dropped its branches to the ground all about her, and caught her as in

a trap. She struggled to get out, but the branches pressed her closer

and closer to the trunk. She was in great terror and distress, when the

air-fish, swimming into the thicket of branches, began tearing them

with its beak. They loosened their hold at once, and the creature went

on attacking them, till at length they let the child go. Then the

air-fish came from behind her, and swam on in front, glittering and

sparkling all lovely colours; and she followed.

It led her gently along till all at once it swam in at a cottage-door.

The child followed still. There was a bright fire in the middle of the

floor, upon which stood a pot without a lid, full of water that boiled

and bubbled furiously. The air-fish swam straight to the pot and into

the boiling water, where it lay quiet. A beautiful woman rose from the

opposite side of the fire and came to meet the girl. She took her up in

her arms, and said,--

"Ah, you are come at last! I have been looking for you a long time."

She sat down with her on her lap, and there the girl sat staring at

her. She had never seen anything so beautiful. She was tall and strong,

with white arms and neck, and a delicate flush on her face. The child

could not tell what was the colour of her hair, but could not help

thinking it had a tinge of dark green. She had not one ornament upon

her, but she looked as if she had just put off quantities of diamonds

and emeralds. Yet here she was in the simplest, poorest little cottage,

where she was evidently at home. She was dressed in shining green.

The girl looked at the lady, and the lady looked at the girl.

"What is your name?" asked the lady.

"The servants always call me Tangle."

"Ah, that was because your hair was so untidy. But that was their

fault, the naughty women! Still it is a pretty name, and I will call

you Tangle too. You must not mind my asking you questions, for you may

ask me the same questions, every one of them, and any others that you

like. How old are you?"

"Ten," answered Tangle.

"You don't look like it," said the lady.

"How old are you, please?" returned Tangle.

"Thousands of years old," answered the lady.

"You don't look like it," said Tangle.

"Don't I? I think I do. Don't you see how beautiful I am?"

And her great blue eyes looked down on the little Tangle, as if all the

stars in the sky were melted in them to make their brightness.

"Ah! but," said Tangle, "when people live long they grow old. At least

I always thought so."

"I have no time to grow old," said the lady. "I am too busy for that.

It is very idle to grow old.--But I cannot have my little girl so

untidy. Do you know I can't find a clean spot on your face to kiss?"

"Perhaps," suggested Tangle, feeling ashamed, but not too much so to

say a word for herself--"perhaps that is because the tree made me cry

so."

"My poor darling!" said the lady, looking now as if the moon were

melted in her eyes, and kissing her little face, dirty as it was, "the

naughty tree must suffer for making a girl cry."

"And what is your name, please?" asked Tangle.

"Grandmother," answered the lady.

"Is it really?"

"Yes, indeed. I never tell stories, even in fun."

"How good of you!"

"I couldn't if I tried. It would come true if I said it, and then I

should be punished enough." And she smiled like the sun through a

summer-shower.

"But now," she went on, "I must get you washed and dressed, and then we

shall have some supper."

"Oh! I had supper long ago," said Tangle.

"Yes, indeed you had," answered the lady--"three years ago. You don't

know that it is three years since you ran away from the bears. You are

thirteen and more now."

Tangle could only stare. She felt quite sure it was true.

"You will not be afraid of anything I do with you--will you?" said the

lady.

"I will try very hard not to be; but I can't be certain, you know,"

replied Tangle.

"I like your saying so, and I shall be quite satisfied," answered the

lady.

She took off the girl's night-gown, rose with her in her arms, and

going to the wall of the cottage, opened a door. Then Tangle saw a deep

tank, the sides of which were filled with green plants, which had

flowers of all colours. There was a roof over it like the roof of the

cottage. It was filled with beautiful clear water, in which swam a

multitude of such fishes as the one that had led her to the cottage. It

was the light their colours gave that showed the place in which they

were.

The lady spoke some words Tangle could not understand, and threw her

into the tank.

The fishes came crowding about her. Two or three of them got under her

head and kept it up. The rest of them rubbed themselves all over her,

and with their wet feathers washed her quite clean. Then the lady, who

had been looking on all the time, spoke again; whereupon some thirty or

forty of the fishes rose out of the water underneath Tangle, and so

bore her up to the arms the lady held out to take her. She carried her

back to the fire, and, having dried her well, opened a chest, and

taking out the finest linen garments, smelling of grass and lavender,

put them upon her, and over all a green dress, just like her own,

shining like hers, and soft like hers, and going into just such lovely

folds from the waist, where it was tied with a brown cord, to her bare

feet.

"Won't you give me a pair of shoes too, Grandmother?" said Tangle.

"No, my dear; no shoes. Look here. I wear no shoes."

So saying she lifted her dress a little, and there were the loveliest

white feet, but no shoes. Then Tangle was content to go without shoes

too. And the lady sat down with her again, and combed her hair, and

brushed it, and then left it to dry while she got the supper.

First she got bread out of one hole in the wall; then milk out of

another; then several kinds of fruit out of a third; and then she went

to the pot on the fire, and took out the fish, now nicely cooked, and,

as soon as she had pulled off its feathered skin, ready to be eaten.

"But," exclaimed Tangle. And she stared at the fish, and could say no

more.

"I know what you mean," returned the lady. "You do not like to eat the

messenger that brought you home. But it is the kindest return you can

make. The creature was afraid to go until it saw me put the pot on, and

heard me promise it should be boiled the moment it returned with you.

Then it darted out of the door at once. You saw it go into the pot of

itself the moment it entered, did you not?"

"I did," answered Tangle, "and I thought it very strange; but then I

saw you, and forgot all about the fish."

"In Fairyland," resumed the lady, as they sat down to the table, "the

ambition of the animals is to be eaten by the people; for that is their

highest end in that condition. But they are not therefore destroyed.

Out of that pot comes something more than the dead fish, you will see."

Tangle now remarked that the lid was on the pot. But the lady took no

further notice of it till they had eaten the fish, which Tangle found

nicer than any fish she had ever tasted before. It was as white as

snow, and as delicate as cream. And the moment she had swallowed a

mouthful of it, a change she could not describe began to take place in

her. She heard a murmuring all about her, which became more and more

articulate, and at length, as she went on eating, grew intelligible. By

the time she had finished her share, the sounds of all the animals in

the forest came crowding through the door to her ears; for the door

still stood wide open, though it was pitch dark outside; and they were

no longer sounds only; they were speech, and speech that she could

understand. She could tell what the insects in the cottage were saying

to each other too. She had even a suspicion that the trees and flowers

all about the cottage were holding midnight communications with each

other; but what they said she could not hear.

As soon as the fish was eaten, the lady went to the fire and took the

lid off the pot. A lovely little creature in human shape, with large

white wings, rose out of it, and flew round and round the roof of the

cottage; then dropped, fluttering, and nestled in the lap of the lady.

She spoke to it some strange words, carried it to the door, and threw

it out into the darkness. Tangle heard the flapping of its wings die

away in the distance.

"Now have we done the fish any harm?" she said, returning.

"No," answered Tangle, "I do not think we have. I should not mind

eating one every day."

"They must wait their time, like you and me too, my little Tangle."

And she smiled a smile which the sadness in it made more lovely.

"But," she continued, "I think we may have one for supper to-morrow."

So saying she went to the door of the tank, and spoke; and now Tangle

understood her perfectly.

"I want one of you," she said,--"the wisest."

Thereupon the fishes got together in the middle of the tank, with their

heads forming a circle above the water, and their tails a larger circle

beneath it. They were holding a council, in which their relative wisdom

should be determined. At length one of them flew up into the lady's

hand, looking lively and ready.

"You know where the rainbow stands?" she asked.

"Yes, Mother, quite well," answered the fish.

"Bring home a young man you will find there, who does not know where to

go."

The fish was out of the door in a moment. Then the lady told Tangle it

was time to go to bed; and, opening another door in the side of the

cottage, showed her a little arbour, cool and green, with a bed of

purple heath growing in it, upon which she threw a large wrapper made

of the feathered skins of the wise fishes, shining gorgeous in the

firelight.

Tangle was soon lost in the strangest, loveliest dreams. And the

beautiful lady was in every one of her dreams.

In the morning she woke to the rustling of leaves over her head, and

the sound of running water. But, to her surprise, she could find no

door--nothing but the moss-grown wall of the cottage. So she crept

through an opening in the arbour, and stood in the forest. Then she

bathed in a stream that ran merrily through the trees, and felt

happier; for having once been in her grandmother's pond, she must be

clean and tidy ever after; and, having put on her green dress, felt

like a lady.

She spent that day in the wood, listening to the birds and beasts and

creeping things. She understood all that they said, though she could

not repeat a word of it; and every kind had a different language, while

there was a common though more limited understanding between all the

inhabitants of the forest. She saw nothing of the beautiful lady, but

she felt that she was near her all the time; and she took care not to

go out of sight of the cottage. It was round, like a snow-hut or a

wigwam; and she could see neither door nor window in it. The fact was,

it had no windows; and though it was full of doors, they all opened

from the inside, and could not even be seen from the outside.

She was standing at the foot of a tree in the twilight, listening to a

quarrel between a mole and a squirrel, in which the mole told the

squirrel that the tail was the best of him, and the squirrel called the

mole Spade-fists, when, the darkness having deepened around her, she

became aware of something shining in her face, and looking round, saw

that the door of the cottage was open, and the red light of the fire

flowing from it like a river through the darkness. She left Mole and

Squirrel to settle matters as they might, and darted off to the

cottage. Entering, she found the pot boiling on the fire, and the

grand, lovely lady sitting on the other side of it.

"I've been watching you all day," said the lady. "You shall have

something to eat by and by, but we must wait till our supper comes

home."

She took Tangle on her knee, and began to sing to her--such songs as

made her wish she could listen to them for ever. But at length in

rushed the shining fish, and snuggled down in the pot. It was followed

by a youth who had outgrown his worn garments. His face was ruddy with

health, and in his hand he carried a little jewel, which sparkled in

the firelight.