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A ROUND DOZEN.
[Illustration: TOINETTE AND THE ELVES.
Down on the ground beside her, a tiny figure became visible, so small
that Toinette had to kneel and stoop her head to see it.--PAGE 234.]
A ROUND DOZEN.
BY
SUSAN COOLIDGE,
AUTHOR OF "THE NEW YEAR'S BARGAIN," "WHAT KATY DID," "WHAT KATY
DID AT SCHOOL," "MISCHIEF'S THANKSGIVING," "NINE LITTLE
GOSLINGS," "EYEBRIGHT," "CROSS-PATCH,"
"A GUERNSEY LILY."
[Illustration: QUI LEGIT REQIT]
BOSTON:
ROBERTS BROTHERS.
1892.
_Copyright, 1883_,
BY ROBERTS BROTHERS.
UNIVERSITY PRESS:
JOHN WILSON AND SON, CAMBRIDGE.
TO
V V V V V
_Five little buds grouped round the parent stem,
Growing in sweet airs, beneath gracious skies,
Watched tenderly from sunrise to sunrise,
Lest blight, or chill, or evil menace them._
_Five small and folded buds, just here and there
Giving a hint of what the bloom may be,
When to reward the long close ministry
The buds shall blossom into roses fair._
_Soft dews fall on you, dears, soft breezes blow,
The noons be tempered and the snows be kind,
And gentle angels watch each stormy wind,
And turn it from the garden where you grow._
CONTENTS.
PAGE
THE LITTLE WHITE DOOR 9
LITTLE KAREN AND HER BABY 34
HELEN'S THANKSGIVING 47
AT FIESOLE 67
QUEEN BLOSSOM 93
A SMALL BEGINNING 115
THE SECRET DOOR 135
THE TWO WISHES 156
BLUE AND PINK 183
A FORTUNATE MISFORTUNE 198
TOINETTE AND THE ELVES 232
JEAN'S MONEY, AND WHAT IT BOUGHT 259
HOW THE STORKS CAME AND WENT 277
THE LITTLE WHITE DOOR.
I SUPPOSE that most boys and girls who go to school and study geography
know, by sight at least, the little patch of pale pink which is marked
on the map as "Switzerland." I suppose, too, that if I asked, "What can
you tell me about Switzerland?" a great many of them would cry out, "It
is a mountainous country, the Alps are there, Mont Blanc is there, the
highest land in Europe." All this is true; but I wonder if all of those
who know even so much have any idea what a beautiful country Switzerland
is? Not only are the mountains very high and very grand, but the valleys
which lie between are as green as emerald, and full of all sorts of wild
flowers; there are lakes of the loveliest blue, rivers which foam and
dash as merrily as rivers do in America, and the prettiest farmhouses in
the world,--_chalets_ the Swiss call them,--with steep roofs and hanging
balconies, and mottoes and quaint ornaments carved all over their
fronts. And the most peculiar and marvellous thing of all is the strange
nearness of the grass and herbage to the snows. High, high up in the
foldings of the great mountains on whose tops winter sits all the year
long, are lovely little valleys hidden away, where goats and sheep feed
by the side of glacier-fed streams; and the air is full of the tinkle of
their bells, and of the sweet smells of the mountain flowers. The water
of these streams has an odd color which no other waters have,--a sort of
milky blue-green, like an opal. Even on the hottest days a chilly air
plays over their surface, the breath, as it were, of the great
ice-fields above, from whose melting snows the streams are fed. And the
higher you climb, still greener grow the pastures and thicker the
blossoms, while the milk in the _chalet_ pans seems half cream, it is so
rich. Delicious milk it is, ice cold, and fragrant as if the animals
which produce it had fed on flowers. Oh, Switzerland is a wonderful land
indeed!
One day as I sat in a thicket of Alp roses in one of those lovely,
lonely upper valleys, I happened to raise my eyes, and noticed, high in
the cliff above, a tall narrow rock as white as snow, which looked
exactly like a door set in the face of the gray precipice. An old
shepherd came by, and I asked him about it. He said it was called "The
Door," and that the valley was called "The Valley of the Door" by some
folks because of it, but that its real name was "_Das Fritzethal_," or
"Fritz's Valley," on account of a boy called Fritz who once lived there.
I wanted to know about the boy, and as the old man had a little time to
spare, he sat down beside me and told this story, which I will now tell
you.
"It was many, many years ago," the shepherd said, "so many that no man
now remembers exactly when it happened. Fritz's mother was a widow, and
he was her only child. They were poor people, and had to work hard for a
living. Fritz was a steady, faithful lad, and did his best. All day long
he dug and toiled, and herded and milked and fed his goats; in the
winter he carved wooden bowls for sale in the lower valley; but, work as
he would, it was not always easy to keep the meal-bin full. What made it
harder, were the strange storms which every few months swept the valley
and damaged the crops. Out of the blue sky, as it were, these storms
would suddenly drop. The sun would be shining one moment; the next,
great torrents of rain would begin to fall and fierce winds to blow,
flooding the crops and carrying drifts of sand and gravel across the
fields. Then, at other times, no rain would fall for months together,
and every green thing would be burned and dried up, while perhaps at
the very same time the lower valleys had plenty of rain. This happened
so often that people gave the Thal the name of "The Unlucky Valley," and
it was accounted a sad thing to have to get a living there. The climate
is very different now--praised be God.
"You can see, madame, that Fritz's lot was not strewn with roses. Still
he was a brave lad, and did not lose heart. He had no play-fellows, but
sometimes in the long summer days when he sat to watch the herd, he
would tell himself stories by way of amusement, and almost always these
stories were about the White Door up there, which was as much a marvel
then as now. At last, by dint of looking and dreaming, it grew to be so
like a real door to him, that he resolved one day to climb up and see it
closer."
"Up there!" I cried with horror.
"Yes, madame. It was very rash. Any ordinary boy would have been dashed
to pieces, but Fritz was wiry, strong, and active as a mountain goat.
There are no such boys left nowadays. One night, while his mother slept,
he stole away, climbed as high as he dared by moonlight, took a wink of
sleep under a shelving rock, and with the first dawn began to make his
way upward, testing every foothold, and moving cautiously; for though he
loved adventure, Fritz was by no means a foolhardy boy, and had no mind
to lose his life if wit and care could keep it safe. But the climb was a
terrible one. He had been on precipices before, but never on such as
this. Only God's goodness saved him again and again. A hundred times he
wished himself back, but to return was worse than to go on. So up and up
he went, and at last, scaling that sheer brown cliff which you see
there, and throwing himself breathless on a narrow ledge, he found
himself close to the object of his desires. There, just before him, was
the Little White Door.
[Illustration: Pretty soon he grew bold, and seizing the knocker he gave
a loud rap.
PAGE 15.]
"The sight restored his energies at once. It was a real door--that he
saw at a glance, for there was a latch and a keyhole and a knocker--all
carved of white stone, and on the door a name in good German characters,
'_Die Wolken_.' I do not know the name in English."
"It is 'Clouds,'" I told him.
"Ah, yes, 'die clouds.' Fritz could hardly believe his eyes, as you may
imagine.
"Pretty soon he grew bold, and seizing the knocker he gave a loud rap.
Nobody answered at first, so he rapped again, louder and louder, until
the sound echoed from the rocks like thunder. At last the door opened
very suddenly, and some one drew Fritz in and shut the door again
quickly. All was dark inside, but he felt a cool touch on his wrist, and
a hand he could not see led him along a rocky passage into the heart of
the cliff.
"After a while a glimmering light appeared, and the passage turned
suddenly into a large hall, which was full of people, Fritz thought at
first; but then he saw that they were not people, but strange rounded
shapes in white or gray, who moved and bounded, and seemed to be playing
a game of some sort. It was like a game of bowls, but the things they
rolled to and fro on the rocky floor were not balls, but shapes like
themselves, only smaller and rounder, and of all beautiful colors, red
and purple and yellow. The creatures liked to roll, it would seem, for
they skipped and jumped as they went along, and laughed with a sort of
crackling laughter, which echoed oddly back from the roof of the cave.
The big shapes laughed too in great booming tones. Altogether they made
a great deal of noise. Still the damp little hand clasped Fritz's wrist,
and looking down he saw that his guide was no other than one of those
same small shapes which were the balls of the game. There was something
so familiar in the pink-cheeked fleecy outline, that in his surprise
Fritz forgot to be afraid, and spoke aloud, crying, 'Why! It's a
cloud!'
"'To be sure. What did you suppose me to be, and why did you come to the
clouds' house if you didn't want to see clouds?' replied the thing.
"'Didn't you see our name on the door? Or perhaps you can't read,
Stupid!' demanded a large white cloud, leaving the group of players and
coming up to Fritz and his companion.
"'Yes, I can read, and I did see the name,' stammered Fritz; 'still I
didn't--'
"'You did and you didn't; how intelligent you seem to be!' said the
white cloud, with a toss and curl; while a big black thunder-cloud,
pitching a little yellow one clear across the cave, shouted in sullen
tones which echoed frightfully from the rocks overhead, 'What's that boy
doing here spoiling our game? Cumulus, it's your roll. Turn that little
beggar out. He has no business here, interfering with the sports of his
betters!'
"Fritz trembled, but his small conductor faced the black cloud
undauntedly.
"'Hold your tongue!' he said. 'This boy is my visitor. I let him in, and
you're not to bully him. I won't permit it.'
"'_You_, indeed!' blustered the thunder-cloud. 'Pray, what can you do
about it, Little Pink? I shall say what I like, and do as I like.'
"'No, you won't,' cried all the small clouds together, rearing
themselves up from the floor. 'We fair-weather clouds are not a bit
afraid of you, as you know. We know very well how to drive you black
ones away, and we will do it now if you are not civil.' Their voices
though bright were threatening, and one little violet bit made a dash
straight at the nose of the thunder-cloud, who shrank into a corner,
muttering wrathfully.
"'Don't be at all afraid,' said Little Pink to Fritz, in a patronizing
tone. 'He shan't do you any harm. That sort of cloud is always afraid to
face us, because we are so many, you see, and can serve him as he
deserves. Well, now, and what brought you up here, pray?'
"'I didn't know who lived here, and I wanted so much to see,' replied
Fritz, shyly.
"'You didn't? Didn't you know that this was our house?' demanded the
little cloud, astonished.
"'No, indeed. I didn't even know that you had a house.'
"'What! Not know that? Pray, where did you suppose we were when you
didn't see us in the sky?' cried Little Pink. 'A house! Of course we
have a house. Everybody has one. You've got a house yourself, haven't
you? Why, we've lived here always, all we clouds. Sometimes we have
great family meetings, when we get together and indulge in all sorts of
fun and frolic, never going out doors for weeks at a time.'
"'Oh, those must be the times when our fields all burn up, and the
streams run dry, and the poor cattle low with thirst!' said Fritz,
suddenly enlightened. 'So you are enjoying yourselves up here all the
time, are you? I call that very unkind, and--' Suddenly recollecting
where he was, he hung his head, abashed at his own daring.
"Little Pink hung his head too, with a grieved face.
"'I never thought of that before,' he said penitently. 'It was pleasant
for us, and the time went fast. I recollect now that the world has
looked rather queer and yellow sometimes when we have come out again
after a long absence, but it grew green presently, and I did not suppose
any one minded--'
"All this while a strange growling sound had been going on in a room
opening from the hall, across whose entrance stout bars were fixed.
"'What _is_ that?' asked Fritz, unable longer to restrain his curiosity.
"'That? That's only the North Wind,' replied Little Pink, in an absent
tone. 'We've shut him up, because he has no business to be abroad in the
summer; and he's such a restless creature, and so violent, that he will
break loose if he can, and do all manner of mischief. Last year, about
this time, he got out and raised a great storm, and made a fearful mess
of it down below.'
"'I recollect. That was the storm that killed three of our sheep, and
ruined the barley crop,' exclaimed Fritz. 'Oh, it was dreadful! We had
to make half a loaf do the work of a whole one all winter long in
consequence. It was hungry times in the valley, I can tell you. Oh, the
evil Wind!'
"'You poor fellow!' cried the little cloud. 'Well, he's safe now, as you
see. He can't get out and plague you this year, at least. But I'm so
sorry you went hungry. It wasn't our fault, really it wasn't; still I
should like to make it up to you somehow, if I could.' He reflected a
moment, then he went forward and gave a call which collected all the
other clouds around him. Fritz watched them consulting together; at last
they moved toward him in a body.
"'Now, Boy,' said Little Pink, who seemed to have elected himself
spokesman, 'because you're a good boy and have had bad luck, and because
you're the first boy who ever came up here and rapped on our door, we're
going to propose a bargain. So long as you live in the valley below and
are steady, and work hard and keep a kind heart in your bosom for people
not so well off as yourself, so long we will look after your farm and
befriend it. Water shall fall on it regularly, flood and tempest shall
spare it, the grass shall never dry, nor the brook fail, nor the herds
lack for food. We shall watch closely, and so long as you keep your word
we will keep ours. Do you agree?'
"'What! never any more droughts, never any floods,' cried Fritz, unable
to believe such good news. 'Oh, how happy mother will be! Indeed, indeed
I will do my best--pray believe that I will.'
"'The proof of the pudding,' began Cumulus, but Little Pink silenced
him with a wave of his hand.
"'Very well, you do your best and we will do ours,' he said in a cheery
tone. 'Now about getting you home. Do you know how late it is?'
"'No,' said Fritz, who had forgotten all about time.
"'It is just noon.'
"'Really? Oh, how frightened the mother will be!' cried Fritz, his heart
sinking as he thought of the terrible cliffs which he must descend.
"'He never can go home as he came,' declared a rainbow, craning its long
curved neck like a giraffe's over the heads of the others.
"'I'll tell you, let us all carry him down on our shoulders,' suggested
Little Pink.
"'So we will,' shouted the clouds in a chorus; and jostling and laughing
they all crowded into the narrow passage, bearing Fritz in their midst.
As the door swung open, in swept fresh visitors, a crowd of tiny
scurrying shapes, and some one behind, whipping them along with a lash
of many-colored air.
"'Why, where are you all going?' demanded the new-comer, in a breezy
voice. 'I've collected these stray lambs from hither and yon, and now
I'm in for the day. What takes you out, pray?'
"'We'll not be gone a minute. We're only going to carry this boy home,'
answered the rest; while Little Pink whispered in Fritz's ear, 'That's
the West Wind. He's a great favorite with us all.'
"'Hallo! A boy! Why, so it is,' cried West Wind. He pounced on Fritz as
he spoke, kissed him, ruffled his hair, boxed his ears softly, all in a
minute. Then, with a gay, whooping laugh he vanished into the passage,
while the clouds, raising Fritz, floated downward like a flock of
white-winged birds. Little Pink lay under his cheek like a pillow.
Softly as thistle-down touches earth they landed on the valley floor,
laid Fritz on a bed of soft grass, and rose again, leaving him there. He
looked up to watch them rise, bright and smiling. Little Pink waved a
rosy hand. Higher and higher sailed the clouds, then they vanished into
the door, and the door was shut."
I am telling the story, as you see, rather in my own words than in those
of the old shepherd, but you won't mind that. The truth is, I cannot
remember the exact language he used, but so long as I keep to the main
points of the history it doesn't much matter, does it?
"In a few minutes Fritz recovered his wits and made haste home, for he
feared his mother might be alarmed at his long absence. She was not,
however, for she supposed that he had risen early, as he sometimes did,
and taking a piece of bread in his hand, had followed the goats up the
valley, breakfasting by the way. She met him, full of wonder at a
strange thing that had happened.
"'Such a queer mist filled the valley just now,' she said, 'I could not
see the sun at all. I feared a storm was coming, but presently it rolled
away all in a minute, and left the day as fine as ever. Did you notice
it? I never saw anything like it before.'
"Fritz let his mother wonder, and held his peace. She would think that
he had fallen asleep and dreamed it all, he was sure; in fact, after a
little he himself began to believe that it was a dream.
"But, dream or no dream, the strange thing was that it came true! From
that time on, the climate of the Unlucky Valley seemed to change. Years
passed by without a single drought or inundation. When the pastures
below were parched with thirst, rain fell on Fritz's fields, keeping
them green as emerald. All his crops succeeded; his goats and sheep gave
double share of milk, and little by little he grew rich.
"'The Lucky Valley,' people now called the once unlucky spot, while to
Fritz they gave the name of 'The Favored of the Saints.' Year after
year his gains went on increasing. Gradually all the land in the valley
became his, except one tiny strip, there at the upper end, which
belonged to a widow, poor as Fritz's mother once had been. This strip
Fritz desired to buy, but the widow refused to sell, though he offered a
large price. She had come there a bride, she declared, with the
myrtle-crown on her head, and there she wished to die and be buried when
her time should come. The memory of his own poor mother, who had died
some time before, should have made Fritz pitiful to this lonely woman,
but his heart had grown hard with continued prosperity, and it angered
him to be opposed. So when after many attempts she persisted in her
resolution, he tried harsher means. The widow had debts. These he bought
up, and when she could not pay he brought the pressure of the law to
bear, and turned her from her home.
"The very night after he had watched her depart, weeping and
broken-hearted, as he lay on his bed, feeling at last that the valley
was all his own, the Little White Door opened on the cliffs far above,
and out came the clouds.
"Not pink and purple now, smiling and full of good will, but black and
wrathful. Like a flock of dark vultures they swooped at the sleeping
valley. Floods of rain fell, fierce winds tore and raved, the river rose
and burst its bounds, carrying all before it; and Fritz, awakened by the
fearful roar, had just time to escape from his bed and gain the nearer
hillside, when the waters struck the _chalet_ and bore it away in ruins
down the valley, as though it were no more than a bubble of foam. The
crops were swept off, the flocks drowned in the fields. Fritz clung to a
tree-trunk through that fearful night, listening to the hiss and rush of
the flood, and the bleatings of the drowning sheep; and ever and anon it
seemed as if shapes, dimly seen through the darkness, swooped at and
buffeted him, while voices cried in his ear, 'Promise-breaker!
Widow-spoiler! Is _this_ the way you keep faith with the clouds?'
"When morning dawned it revealed a scene of ruin. Not a blade of barley
remained in the meadows, not a blade of grass in the fields. The labor
of years had vanished in a single night."
"It served him right," said I.
"Ah, my lady," replied the old shepherd, "God is more merciful to
sinners than we men can be. Fritz was not wicked at heart. He saw his
fault now in the light of his misfortune, and was sorry for it. Gladly
would he have made amends, but he was now poor as the poorest, for the
waters lay over the earth, and did not run off as waters generally do.
The fertile valley was become a lake, into which points of land, fringed
with broken and battered trees, pushed themselves. It was a sad sight.
"News of the disaster reached the lower valleys, and the kindly peasants
flocked to help. But what could they do till the water receded?
Nothing. They could only say comforting words and return to their homes,
leaving Fritz to his fate.
"He waited many days, then he formed a bold resolution. He determined to
climb the cliff once more, knock at the Little White Door, and plead
with the clouds for forgiveness."
"That was bold indeed," I said.
"It was a much harder task than it had been years before, when he was a
boy and his joints were supple," continued the old shepherd. "Only
desperation carried him upward, but at last he did reach the door. He
knocked many times without answer, and when at length the door opened,
it was not a merry little cloud which appeared, but a tall, gloomy white
one, which looked like a sheeted ghost. No game was going on in the
great hall. The clouds, dressed in black, each with his thunder-cap on,
sat side by side, and frowned on Fritz as he stood in the midst and made
his plea.
"'I have sinned,' he said sadly, as he ended, 'I have sinned
grievously, and I am justly punished. I forgot my promise to you, _meine
Herren_, and I cannot complain that you broke yours to me. But give me
one more chance, I implore you. Let me atone for my fault, and if I fail
again, punish me as you will.'
"It seemed to him that the clouds grew a little less gloomy as he spoke,
and their voices were gentle as they replied, 'Very well, we will
consider of it. Now go.' There was no offer to carry him this time.
Exhausted and weary he groped his way down at peril to life and limb,
and more dead than alive crept into the miserable shed which had
replaced his home, with no assured hope as to what the clouds might
elect to do.
"But lo, in the morning the waters had begun to fall. He hardly dared
believe his eyes, but day by day they slowly grew less. By the end of a
fortnight the ground was left bare. Such land! Rough, seamed, gullied by
the flood, covered with slime from the mountain side and with rocks and
gravel,--it seemed a hopeless task to reclaim it again into pasture.
"But Fritz was a strong man and his will was good. Little by little the
rocks were removed, the fields resown, and the valley restored to its
old fruitfulness. The soil seemed richer than ever before, as if the mud
and slime which had lain so long on the surface were possessed of some
fertilizing quality. Another _chalet_ in time arose, in place of the old
one. By the end of fifteen years Fritz again was a rich man, richer than
before. But his hard heart had been drowned in the flood, and the new
heart which he brought back from the Little White Door was soft and
kind. As soon as he could, he sought out the poor widow and restored to
her all she had lost, land and home and goats. Later on he wedded her
niece, a good and honest maiden, and they took the widow to live under
their own roof, and were to her as a son and daughter. So the last years
of Fritz were his best years, and his name, 'The Favored of the
Saints,' stuck to him for the rest of his life. And it is from him that
this valley is named _Das Fritzethal_, my lady."
"And is the story really a true one?" I asked.
"Ah, who knows?" said the old shepherd, shaking his head wisely. "The
world has so many liars in it that no one can be sure." Then he took off
his odd pointed hat, made a bow, called to his goats, and went his way
down the valley, followed by the herd with their many-keyed tinkling
bells.
I looked up. The Little White Door shone out of the face of the cliff
all rosy pink with sunset. It was time for me to go also.
"At least," I thought, "if the story is not all true, if it has changed
and grown a little during the course of the years,--at least it is a
good story, and I am glad I heard it."
LITTLE KAREN AND HER BABY.
THE cottage in which little Karen lived stood high up on the hillside,
close to the edge of a great forest. It was a strange, lonely place for
a young wife, almost a girl, to be so happy in; but Karen was not afraid
of the forest, and never thought her home lonely, not even when the
strong winds blew in winter-time, and brought the far-off baying of
wolves from the mountains beyond. Her husband, her boy, her housewifely
cares, her spinning-wheel, and her needle kept her busy all day long,
and she was as cheerful as busy. The cottage was not large, but it was
strongly built of heavy beams and stones. Its low walls seemed to hug
and clasp the ground, as if for protection in time of storm. The
casement windows, with their very small panes of thick glass, let in
little sun, but all summer long they stood open, and in winter, what
with the crackling fire, the hum of the wheel, and Karen's bright face,
the living-room never looked dark, and, for all its plainness, had an
air of quaint comfort about it. Fritz, Karen's husband, who was skilful
with tools, had ornamented the high-backed chair, the press for clothes,
and the baby's oaken cradle, with beautiful carving, of which little
Karen was exceedingly proud. She loved her cottage, she loved the great
wood close by; her lonely life was delightful to her, and she had not
the least wish to exchange it for the toy-like village in the valley
below.
But Karen was unlike other people, the neighbors said, and the old
gossips were wont to shake their heads, and mutter that there was a
reason for this unlikeness, and that all good Christians ought to pity
and pray for the poor child.
Long, long ago, said these gossips,--so long that nobody now could
remember exactly when it was,--Karen's great-great-great-grandfather,
(or perhaps _his_ grandfather--who could tell?) when hunting in the high
mountains, met a beautiful, tiny maiden, so small and light that a man
could easily carry her in the palm of one hand. This maiden he fell in
love with, and he won her to be his wife. She made a good wife; kept the
house as bright as new tin; and on her wheel spun linen thread so fine
that mortal eye could hardly see it. But a year and a day from the time
of her marriage she went out to walk in the wood, and never came back
any more! The reason of this was, that she was a gnomide,--daughter of
one of the forest gnomes,--and when her own people encountered her thus
alone, they detained her, and would not suffer her to return to her
husband. The baby she left in the cradle grew to be a woman,--bigger
than her gnome mother, it is true, but still very small; and all the
women of the race have been small since that time. Witness little Karen
herself, whose head only came up to the shoulder of her tall Fritz. Then
her passion for woods and solitary places, her beautiful swift spinning,
her hair, of that peculiar pale white-brown shade,--all these were
proofs of the drops of unearthly blood which ran in her veins. Gnomes
always had white hair. This was because they lived in holes and dark
places. Even a potato would throw out white leaves if kept in a
cellar,--everybody knew that,--and the gossips, ending thus, would shake
their heads again, and look very wise.
Karen had heard these stories, and laughed at them. No fairy or gnome
had ever met her eyes in the woods she loved so well; and as for hair,
Rosel Pilaff's, and Gretchen Erl's too, was almost as pale as hers. Fair
hair is common enough in the German mountains. Her little boy--bless
him!--had downy rings which promised to become auburn in time, the
color of his father's beard. She did not believe in the gnome story a
bit.
But there came a time when she almost wished to believe it, for the
gnomes are said to be wise folk, and little Fritz fell ill of a strange
disease, which neither motherly wisdom nor motherly nursing was able to
reach. Each day left him thinner and weaker, till he seemed no more than
half his former size. His very face looked strange as it lay on the
cradle-pillow, and Karen was at her wits' end to know what to do.
"I will go to the village and ask Mother Klaus to come and see the
child," said Fritz. "She may know of a remedy."
"It will be of no use," declared Karen, sadly. "She went to the Berards'
and the baby died, and to Heinrich's and little Marie died. But go, go,
Fritz!--only come back soon, lest our angel take flight while you are
away!"
She almost pushed him from the door, in her impatience to have him
return.
A while after, when the baby had wailed himself to sleep, she went again
to the door to look down the path into the valley. It was too soon to
hope for Fritz, but the movement seemed a relief to her restlessness. It
was dusk, not dark,--a sweet, mild dusk, with light enough left to show
the tree-branches as they met and waved against the dim yellow sky. Deep
shadows lay on the moss-beds and autumn flowers which grew beneath; only
a faint perfume here and there told of their presence, and the night was
very near.
Too unhappy to mind the duskiness, Karen wandered a little way up the
wood-path, and sat down on the root of an old oak, so old that the
rangers had given it the name of "Herr Grandfather." It was only to
clear her brimming eyes that she sat down. She wiped them with her
kerchief, and, with one low sob, was about to rise, when she became
aware that somebody was standing at her side.
This somebody was a tiny old woman, with a pale, shadowy, but sweet
face, framed in flossy white hair. She wore a dark, foreign-looking
robe; a pointed hood, edged with fur, was pulled over her head; and the
hand which she held out as she spoke was as white as the stalk of
celery.
"What is the matter, my child?" she asked, in a thin, rustling voice,
which yet sounded pleasantly, because it was kind.
"My baby is _so_ ill," replied Karen, weeping.
"How ill?" inquired the old woman, anxiously. "Is it cold? Is it fever?
Do its eyes water? My baby once had a cold, and her eyes--" She stopped
abruptly.
"His eyes do not water," said Karen, who felt singularly at home with
the stranger. "But his head is hot, and his hands; he sleeps ill, and
for these ten days has hardly eaten. He grows thinner and whiter every
hour, and wails whenever he is awake. Oh, what am I doing? I must go
back to him." And, as she spoke, she jumped from her seat.
"One minute!" entreated the little old woman. "Has he pain anywhere?"
"He cries when I move his head," said Karen, hurrying on.
The stranger went too, keeping close beside her in a swift, soundless
way.
"Take courage, Liebchen, child to her who was child of my child's
child," she said. "Weep not, my darling. I will send you help. Out of
the wisdom of the earth shall come aid for the little dear one."
"What _do_ you mean?" cried Karen, stopping short in her surprise.
But the old woman did not answer. She had vanished. Had the wind blown
her away?
"How could I wander so far? How could I leave my baby? Wicked mother
that I am!" exclaimed Karen, in sudden terror, as she ran into the
cottage.
But nothing seemed disturbed, and no one had been there. The baby lay
quietly in his cradle, and the room was quite still, save for the hiss
of the boiling pot and the fall of an ember on the hearth. Gradually her
heart ceased its terrified beating; a sense of warmth and calm crept
over her, her eyes drooped, and, seated at the cradle-foot, she fell
asleep in her chair.
Whether it was an hour or a minute that she slept, she never knew.
Slowly and dimly her waking senses crept back to her; but though she
heard and saw and understood, she could neither stir nor speak. Two
forms were bending over the cradle, forms of little men, venerable and
shadowy, with hair like snow, and blanched, pale hands, like her visitor
of the afternoon. They did not look at Karen, but consulted together
above the sleeping child.
"It is _here_, brother, and _here_," said one, laying his finger gently
on the baby's head and heart.
"Does it lie too deep for our reaching?" asked the second, anxiously.
"No. The little herb you know of is powerful."
"And the crystal dust _you_ know of is more powerful still."
Then they took out two minute caskets, and Karen saw them open the
baby's lips, and each drop in a pinch of some unknown substance.
"He is of ours," whispered one, "more of ours than any of them have been
since the first."
"He has the gift of the far sight," said the other, lightly touching the
closed eyes, "the divining glance, and the lucky finger."
"I read in him the apprehension of metals," said the second old man,
"the sense of hidden treasures, the desire to penetrate."
"We will teach him how the waters run, and what the birds say--yes, and
the way in and the way out!"
"Put the charm round his neck, brother."
Then Karen saw the little men tie a bright object round the baby's neck.
She longed to move, but still she sat mute and powerless, while the odd
figures passed round the cradle, slowly at first, then faster and
faster, crooning, as they went, a song which was like wind in branches,
and of which this scrap lodged in her memory:--
"Eyes to pierce the darkness through,
Wit to grasp the hidden clew,
Heart to feel and hand to do,--
These the gnomes have given to you."
So the song and the circling movement went on, faster and more fast, and
round and round, till Karen's head swam and her senses seemed to spin in
a whirling dance; and she knew no more till roused by the opening of the
door, and Fritz's voice exclaiming: "Come in, Dame Klaus--come in!
Karen! Where are you, wife? Ah, here she is, fast asleep, and the little
man is asleep too."
"I am not asleep," said Karen, finding her voice with an effort. Then,
to her husband's surprise, she began to weep bitterly. But, for all his
urgings, she would not tell the cause, for she was afraid of Dame
Klaus's tongue.
The dame shook her head over the sick baby. He was very bad, she said;
still, she had brought through others as bad as he, and there was no
telling. She asked for a saucepan, and began to brew a tea of herbs,
while Karen, drawing her husband aside, told her wonderful tale in a
whisper.
"Thou wert dreaming, Karen; it is nothing but a dream," declared the
astounded Fritz.
"No, no," protested Karen. "It was not a dream. Baby will be well again,
and great things are to happen! You will see! The little men know!"
"Little men! Oh, Karen! Karen!" exclaimed Fritz.
But he said no more, for Karen, bending over the cradle, lifted the
strange silver coin which was tied round the baby's neck, and held it up
to him with a smile. A silver piece is not a dream, as every one knows;
so Fritz, though incredulous, held his tongue, and neither he nor Karen
said a word of the matter to Mother Klaus.
Baby _was_ better next day. It was all the herb-tea, Mother Klaus
declared, and she gained great credit for the cure.
This happened years ago. Little Fritz grew to be a fine man, sound and
hearty, though never as tall as his father. He was a lucky lad too, the
villagers said, for his early taste for minerals caught the attention of
a rich gentleman, who sent him to the school of mines, where he got
great learning. Often when the mother sat alone at her wheel, a smile
came to her lips, and she hummed low to herself the song of the little
old men:--
"Eyes to pierce the darkness through,
Wit to grasp the hidden clew,
Heart to feel and hand to do,--
These the gnomes have given to you."
HELEN'S THANKSGIVING.
"MAMMA, would you mind _very_ much if I should learn to make pies?"
This request sounds harmless, but Mrs. Sands quite started in her chair
as she heard it. She and Helen were sitting on either side of a
wood-fire. The blinds had been pulled down to exclude the chill November
darkness, and the room was lit only by the blazing logs, which sent out
quick, bright flashes followed by sudden soft shadows, in that
unexpected way which is one of the charms of wood-fires. It was a pretty
room, in a pretty house, in one of the up-town streets of New York, and
the mother and daughter looked very comfortable as they sat there
together.
"Pies, my dear? What _do_ you mean?"
"I'll tell you, mamma. You're going to Grandmamma Ellis for
Thanksgiving, this year, you know, and papa and I are going up to
Vermont, to Grandmother Sands?"
"Yes."
"Well, I don't remember grandmother much, because it is so long since
she was here, but the one thing I do recollect is how troubled she was
because I didn't know anything about housekeeping. One day you had a
headache, and wanted some tea; and you rang and rang, and Jane was ever
so long in fetching it, and at last grandma said, 'Why don't you run
down and see to it, Helen?' And when I told her that I wasn't allowed to
go into the kitchen, and beside that I didn't know how to make tea, she
looked so distressed, and said, 'Dear me, dear me! Poor little ignorant
girl! What a sad bringing up for you in a country like ours!' I didn't
understand exactly what she meant, but I have never forgotten it, and do
you know, mamma, just that one speech of grandma's has made me want to
do ever so many things. I never told you, but once I made my bed for
more than a week,--till Bridget said I was 'worth my salt as a
chambermaid,' and I used to dust the nursery, and sweep. And the other
day it came into my head suddenly how pleased grandmother would be if I
carried her a pumpkin-pie that I had made myself; so I asked Morrison,
and she said she'd teach me, and welcome, if you didn't mind. Do you
mind, mamma?"
"You know, dear, I don't like to have you about with the servants, and I
never wanted you to become a drudge at home, as so many American girls
are. Then you have your lessons to attend to besides."
"Yes, mamma, I know, but it will only take one morning, and I'll not
begin till school closes, if you'd rather not. I really would like to so
much, mamsie?"
Helen's pet name for her mother was coaxingly spoken, and had its
effect. Mrs. Sands yielded.
"Very well, dear; you may, if you like, only I wish you could wear
gloves."
"O mamma! nobody makes pies in gloves. But I needn't put my hands in at
all, except for rolling the paste, Morrison says so."
Mrs. Sands was not so silly a woman as she sounds. Born and bred in the
West Indies, the constant talk about servants and housekeeping, that met
her ears when she came to New York, a young married woman, so puzzled
and annoyed her that she somewhat rashly decided that her child should
never know anything about such matters. Morrison, the good old cook, had
lived with her since Helen was a baby, and all had gone so smoothly that
there had never seemed occasion for interference from anybody. And Helen
would have grown up in utter ignorance of all practical matters, had not
a chance remark of her thrifty New England grandmother piqued her into
the voluntary wish of learning.
It was with a good deal of excitement, and a little sense of victory as
well, that Helen went downstairs, a few days later, to take the promised
lesson. The kitchen looked very cheerful and neat, and Morrison was all
ready with her spice-box, eggs, pie-dishes, and great yellow bowl full
of strained pumpkin; likewise a big calico apron to tie over Helen's
dress. First they made the crust. It was such good fun pinching the soft
bits of lard into the nice, dry-feeling flour, that Helen would
willingly have prolonged the operation, but Morrison objected. Pastry
didn't like to be fingered, she said; and she made Helen wash her hands,
and then mix in the ice-water with a thin-bladed knife, cutting and
chopping till all was moistened into a rough sort of dough. Next, she
produced the rolling-pin, and showed her how to beat the dough with
dexterous strokes, up and down, and cross-ways, till it became a smooth
paste, which felt as soft as velvet, and then how to roll it into a
smooth sheet, lay on the butter in thin flakes, fold and roll again.
"Now wrap this towel all round it, and I'll set it into the ice-chest
till we want it," she said. "It'll puff the minute it goes into the
oven, never fear; I can always tell. You like it,--don't you,--Miss
Helen dear?"
"Yes, indeed, ever so much. I _hope_ the pies will be good; grandmamma
will be so pleased."
"They'll be good," pronounced Morrison, confidently. "Now sift in plenty
of sugar, miss."
So Helen put in "plenty" of sugar, and then, as directed, grated
lemon-peel, lemon-juice, cinnamon, ginger, nutmeg, melted butter, a
pinch of salt, beaten eggs, a dash of rose-water, and then a little more
sugar, and "just the least taste of cinnamon," till Morrison pronounced
the flavor exactly right, and Helen declared that for all she could see,
pumpkin-pies were made of anything in the world except pumpkins. Last of
all went in a great pour of hot milk; then the pie-dishes were lined,
filled, and set in the oven, after being ornamented with all manner of
zigzags and curly-queues of paste round their edges; and Helen rushed
upstairs to tell her mother that pie-making was "just lovely," and she
would like to be a cook always, she thought. By Morrison's advice she
wrote the whole process down in a book while it was fresh in her mind,
and she was glad afterwards that she had done so, as you will see.
That same afternoon Mrs. Sands went on to Philadelphia, and next morning
early Helen and her father started for their journey to Vermont. It was
gray, blustering weather, but neither of them cared for that. Papa was
in high spirits, and full of fun as a school-boy. Their baggage
comprised, besides two valises, a big hamper full of all sorts of nice
things for grandmother, game and fruit and groceries, and Helen carried
a flat basket in her hand, in which, wrapped in a snowy napkin, reposed
one of the precious pies.
"Bless me, how raw it is! It looks as though it were going to snow,"
said Mr. Sands, as he came in from a walk up and down the platform of
one of the little stations at which the train stopped; and five minutes
later Helen, with a little scream of surprise, cried out, "Why, papa, it
_is_ snowing!" Sure enough it was,--in fine snow-flakes, which before
long thickened into a heavy fall.
"It will only be a squall," Mr. Sands said; but the conductor shook his
head, and remarked that up there so near the mountains there was no
calculating on weather. It might stop in half an hour, or it might go on
all night: no one could pretend to say beforehand which it would do.
By the time they reached Asham, their stopping-place, the ground was
solid white. The wind, too, had risen, and was drifting the snow in all
directions. The tavern-keeper at Asham, to whom Mr. Sands went for "a
team," advised them to stay all night, but this both Helen and her
father agreed was not to be thought of. It was only fourteen miles.
Grandmamma was expecting them, and must not be disappointed. So, well
wrapped in carriage blankets and buffalo robes, they set out in a light
covered rockaway, with a stout horse, their baggage packed in behind
them.
Fourteen miles may seem a very short distance or a very long one,
according to circumstances. Before they had gone half-way both of them
began to think it an extremely long one. The road lay up hill for the
greater part of the way. Night was coming on fast, and every moment the
drift grew thicker and more confusing. Mr. Sands in his secret heart
repented that he had not taken the tavern-keeper's advice, and stayed at
Asham. At last the horse, which had halted several times and been urged
on again, came to a dead stop. Mr. Sands touched him with the whip, but
he would not stir. He jumped up to see what was the matter, and found
the poor animal up to his chest in snow. He had wandered from the road a
little and plunged into a drift. Mr. Sands tried to turn him toward the
road, when, lo, a loud and ominous crack was heard, and Helen gave a
scream. One of the shafts had snapped in two.
Matters now looked serious. Mr. Sands undid the harness as fast as
possible, for he feared the horse might flounder to release himself, and
upset the carriage. Then he climbed into the rockaway again, and stood
up to see if he could anywhere see the light of a house. No; a twinkling
beam was visible farther up the hill, about a quarter of a mile away.
"Helen," he said, "I'll have to ask you to sit here quietly for ten
minutes or so, while I ride on to a house which I see up there, and get
some one to help us. Will you be afraid to be left alone? It's only for
a little while."
"N-o; but O papa! must you go? I'm so afraid the horse will kick, or
you'll tumble off."
"Never fear,"--trying to laugh,--"I really must go, dear; it's our only
chance of getting out of this scrape. Promise me to sit perfectly
still, and on no account to leave the carriage."
It seemed much longer than ten minutes before papa got back, but there
he was at last, with another man carrying a lantern, both of them white
with snow up to their waists.
"All right, Helen," he cried cheerily. "Wrap all the blankets round your
shoulders; I'm going to set you on the horse, and Mr. Simmons and
I--this is Mr. Simmons, my dear--will walk on either side and hold you
on; we'll have you up the hill in a trice."
Helen did not like it at all. The horse felt dreadfully _alive_ under
her, and jerked so, as he plunged up hill through the snow, that she was
constantly afraid of tumbling off. It did not last long, however. In
five minutes her father had lifted and carried her in, and set her down
in a kitchen, where a woman with a candle in her hand stood waiting for
them.
"This is Mrs. Simmons," he said. "She is so kind as to say that she will
keep us till to-morrow morning, when perhaps the snow will have
stopped, and, at all events, we shall have daylight to find our way
with. Mr. Simmons and I are going back now to fetch up the luggage. The
rockaway will have to take care of itself till to-morrow, I fancy."
Left alone, Helen looked curiously about her. The kitchen was a
bare-looking place to her eyes. There was a stove with a fire in it, a
rocking-chair covered with faded "patch," some wooden chairs, a table,
and a sort of dresser with dishes. A large wheel for spinning wool stood
in one of the windows. Everything was clean, but there was an air of
poverty, and to Helen it seemed a most dismal place. She could not
imagine how people could live and be happy there.
Mrs. Simmons herself looked very ill and tired.
"I enjoy such poor health," she explained to Helen, as she took some
plates and bowls down from the dresser. "I got the ague down to Mill
Hollow, where we lived, and we moved up here, hoping to get rid of it.
I am some better, but it took me powerful hard yesterday, and I suppose
I'll have it bad again to-morrow. Mr. Simmons, he's got behindhand
somehow, and it's hard work trying to catch up in these times. What with
one thing and another, both of us have felt clean discouraged this fall.
Glory, fetch the milk."
"Yes, mother." And out of the buttery came a girl of about Helen's age,
with a pan in her hands. She had apparently tumbled out of bed to help
in the entertainment of the strangers, for her hair was flying loose,
and she looked only half dressed; but she had pretty brown eyes and a
bright smile.
"I feel real bad to think I'm out of tea," said Mrs. Simmons. "Father,
he was calculating to get some later on, when he'd finished a job of
lumber-hauling. And the hens have 'most stopped laying, too; I hain't
but four eggs in the house."
"Oh, don't give us the eggs!" cried Helen; "you'll want them yourself
for Thanksgiving, I'm sure."
"Thanksgiving! Dear me, so it is!" said Mrs. Simmons. "I'd forgot all
about that. Not that it'd have made much difference, any way. You can't
make something out of nothin', and that's about what we've come to."
"I've got a pie," cried Helen, with a sudden generous impulse, but
feeling a little pang meanwhile, as she recalled her vision of putting
the pie into grandmamma's own hands. But where was the pie? She
recollected now,--the basket was in her lap when papa lifted her out of
the carriage. It must have fallen out, and probably was now buried deep
in snow.