TWENTY-FOUR
UNUSUAL STORIES
FOR BOYS AND GIRLS
ARRANGED AND RETOLD
BY
ANNA COGSWELL TYLER
WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY
MAUD AND MISKA PETERSHAM
NEW YORK
HARCOURT, BRACE AND COMPANY
1921
COPYRIGHT, 1921, BY
HARCOURT, BRACE AND COMPANY, INC.
PRINTED IN THE U. S. A.
THE QUINN & BODEN COMPANY
RAHWAY. N. J.
TO THE BOYS AND GIRLS WHO
HAVE ENJOYED THESE TALES
AND HAVE BEEN THE INSPIRATION
OF THE STORY-TELLER,
THIS BOOK IS DEDICATED
FOREWORD
It has been suggested that the boys and girls who have so often listened
to these stories in the clubs and story-hours of the New York Public
Library, might like to have a few of their favorites in one book; that
other boys and girls might be interested in reading them; and that the
story-teller, in search of stories for special occasions, might find
this little volume useful.
ANNA COGSWELL TYLER.
1920
CONTENTS
PAGE
THE CONVENT FREE FROM CARE 1
_Jean de Bosschere_
"WHAT THE GOOD-MAN DOES IS SURE TO
BE RIGHT!" 7
_Hans Christian Andersen_
WHERE TO LAY THE BLAME 17
_Howard Pyle_
THE WINDS, THE BIRDS, AND THE TELEGRAPH WIRES 31
_Rev. Jay T. Stocking_
KATCHA AND THE DEVIL 45
_Parker Fillmore_
THE WHITE DOGS OF ARRAN 59
_Cornelia Meigs_
WIND AN' WAVE AN' WANDHERIN' FLAME 81
_Aldis Dunbar_
THE KING, THE QUEEN, AND THE BEE 95
_Aunt Naomi_
THE WELL OF THE WORLD'S END 107
_Joseph Jacobs_
WINGS 115
_Fedor Sologub_
CHRISTMAS STORIES
THE CHRISTMAS CUCKOO 123
_Frances Browne_
THE EMPEROR'S VISION 155
_Selma Lagerlof_
THE VOYAGE OF THE WEE RED CAP 167
_Ruth Sawyer Durand_
GREEK LEGENDS
THE CURSE OF ECHO 183
_Elsie Finnimore Buckley_
HOW THE ASS BECAME A MAN AGAIN 195
_Andrew Lang_
HOW ALEXANDER THE KING GOT THE
WATER OF LIFE 213
_Julia Dragoumis_
AMERICAN INDIAN LEGENDS
THE FIRST CORN 223
_George Bird Grinnell_
WAUKEWA'S EAGLE 233
_James Buckham_
HALLOWE'EN AND MYSTERY STORIES
THE ROLL-CALL OF THE REEF 245
_Arthur Quiller-Couch_
HOW JAN BREWER WAS PISKEY-LADEN 277
_Enys Tregarthen_
MY GRANDFATHER HENDRY WATTY 285
_Arthur Quiller-Couch_
CHILDE ROWLAND 297
_Joseph Jacobs_
TAM O' SHANTER 309
_Robert Burns_
(Prose Version by Anna Cogswell Tyler)
THE BOGGART 325
_Ernest Rhys_
[Illustration: THE CONVENT FREE FROM CARE]
THE CONVENT FREE FROM CARE[1]
ONCE when the Emperor Charles V was traveling in the country, he saw a
convent, and in passing by a little door he read this strange
inscription:
"Here you live without a care."
The Emperor was very surprised and could scarcely believe his eyes.
"It seems to me an impossibility," he thought; "does some one really
exist on earth who is free from care? As Emperor I am overwhelmed with
troubles, while here in this convent, which is a little kingdom in
itself, one would have nothing to worry about. I cannot believe it."
Immediately on setting foot in the village inn, the Emperor sent the
hostess to fetch the Abbot of this singular convent.
You can imagine what a state of mind the latter was in when he heard he
was summoned to the Emperor's presence.
"What have I done to displease him?" he asked himself. On the way he
examined his conscience over and over again, and he could think of no
fault of which he was guilty. "I am in troubled waters; I must steer my
way through," he said.
When he was in the Emperor's presence, the latter expressed his
astonishment of what he had read.
The Abbot now knew why he had been summoned, and smiled. "Sir," said he,
"does that astonish you? However, it is very simple; we eat, we drink,
we sleep, and worry over nothing."
"Well, Reverend Abbot, that state of things must come to an end," said
the Emperor, "and in order that you may have your share of trouble, I
command you to bring me to-morrow the answers to the three following
questions:
"First, What is the depth of the sea?
"Secondly, How many cows' tails would it take to measure the distance
between the earth and the sun?
"Thirdly, What am I thinking about?
"Try to please me or I shall exact a penalty from you."
On hearing these words, the Abbot returned to his convent with a heavy
heart. From that moment he knew no peace. He cudgeled his brains as to
what answer he could make to the Emperor.
When the little bell of the abbey rang, summoning the monks to prayer in
the chapel, the Abbot continued to pace his garden. He was so deep in
thought that he was quite oblivious of what was taking place around him.
Even if a thunderbolt had fallen at his feet, he would not have noticed
it.
"What a horrible thing," he thought. "Is it possible that such a
misfortune has overtaken me? I cannot possibly answer. Who can save the
situation? Perhaps our shepherd could; he has a very lively imagination;
but talk of the devil--"
At that identical moment the shepherd appeared, leading his flock. He
was very surprised to see the Abbot, who was always without a care,
meditating in solitude.
What could have happened?
Without more ado he went to him, and asked him what was troubling him so
deeply.
"Yes, I deserve to be pitied," said the Abbot, and he told him what had
happened.
"Why are you tormenting yourself over a little thing like that?" the
shepherd laughingly replied. "Leave it to me, and all will be well.
To-morrow I will come here and dress myself in your robe, and I will
turn the tables on him."
At first the Abbot demurred, but in the end he yielded, and the matter
was settled.
The next day the shepherd went boldly to find the Emperor.
"Well, Reverend Abbot," the Emperor said with serenity, "have you found
out the answers?"
"Yes, certainly, sire."
"Speak, I am listening."
"Sire, the sea is as deep as a stone's throw.
"To measure the distance between the earth and the sun, you only need
one cow's tail, if it is long enough.
"Do you wish to know, sire, what you are thinking? Well, at this moment,
you think, sire, that the Abbot of the convent is in your presence, and
it is only his shepherd."
The Emperor laughed so heartily that if he has not stopped laughing he
is laughing still.
[Illustration: "WHAT THE GOOD-MAN DOES IS SURE TO BE RIGHT!"]
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 1: In _Christmas Tales of Flanders._ Illustrated and collected
by Jean De Bosschere. Dodd, Mead & Company.]
"WHAT THE GOOD-MAN DOES IS SURE TO BE RIGHT!"[2]
I AM going to tell you a story that was told to me when I was a little
one, and which I like better and better the oftener I think of it. For
it is with stories as with some men and women, the older they grow, the
pleasanter they grow, and that is delightful!
Of course you have been into the country? Well, then, you must have seen
a regularly poor old cottage. Moss and weeds spring up amid the thatch
of the roof, a stork's nest decorates the chimney (the stork can never
be dispensed with), the walls are aslant, the windows low (in fact, only
one of them can be shut), the baking-oven projects forward, and an
elder-bush leans over the gate, where you will see a tiny pond with a
duck and ducklings in it, close under a knotted old willow-tree. Yes,
and then there is a watch-dog that barks at every passer-by.
Just such a poor little cottage as this was the one in my story, and in
it dwelt a husband and wife. Few as their possessions were, one of them
they could do without, and that was a horse, that used to graze in the
ditch beside the highroad. The good-man rode on it to town, he lent it
to his neighbors, and received slight services from them in return, but
still it would be more profitable to sell the horse, or else exchange it
for something they could make of more frequent use. But which should
they do? sell, or exchange?
"Why, you will find out what is best, good-man," said the wife. "Isn't
this market-day? Come, ride off to the town--get money, or what you can
for the horse--whatever you do is sure to be right. Make haste for the
market!"
So she tied on his neckerchief--for that was a matter she understood
better than he--she tied it with a double knot, and made him look quite
spruce; she dusted his hat with the palm of her hand; and she kissed him
and sent him off, riding the horse that was to be either sold or
bartered. Of course, he would know what to do.
The sun was hot, and not a cloud in the sky. The road was dusty, and
such a crowd of folk passed on their way to market. Some in wagons, some
on horseback, some on their own legs. A fierce sun and no shade all the
way.
A man came driving a cow--as pretty a cow as could be. "That creature
must give beautiful milk," thought the peasant; "it would not be a bad
bargain if I got that. I say, you fellow with the cow!" he began aloud:
"let's have some talk together. Look you, a horse, I believe, costs more
than a cow, but it is all the same to me, as I have more use for a
cow--shall we make an exchange?"
"To be sure!" was the answer, and the bargain was made.
The good-man might just as well now turn back homeward--he had finished
his business. But he had made up his mind to go to market, so to market
he must go, if only to look on, so, with his cow, he continued on his
way. He trudged fast, so did the cow, and soon they overtook a man who
was leading a sheep--a sheep in good condition, well clothed with wool.
"I should very much like to have that!" said the peasant. "It would find
pasture enough by our road-side, and in winter we might take it into our
own room. And really it would be more reasonable for us to be keeping a
sheep than a cow. Shall we exchange?"
Yes, the man who owned the sheep was quite willing; so the exchange was
made, and the good-man now went on with his sheep. Presently there
passed him a man with a big goose under his arm.
"Well, you have got a heavy fellow there!" quoth the peasant. "Feathers
and fat in plenty! How nicely we could tie her up near our little pond,
and it would be something for the good-wife to gather up the scraps for.
She has often said: 'If we had but a goose!' Now she can have one--and
she shall, too! Will you exchange? I will give you my sheep for your
goose, and say 'thank you' besides."
The other had no objection, so the peasant had his will and his goose.
He was now close to the town; he was wearied with the heat and the
crowd, folk and cattle pushing past him, thronging on the road, in the
ditch, and close up to the turnpike-man's cabbage-garden, where his one
hen was tied up, lest in her fright she should lose her way and be
carried off. It was a short-backed hen: she winked with one eye, crying,
"Cluck, cluck!" What she was thinking of I can't say, but what the
peasant thought on seeing her, was this: "That is the prettiest hen I
have ever seen--much prettier than any of our parson's chickens. I
should very much like to have her. A hen can always pick up a grain here
and there--can provide for herself. I almost think it would be a good
plan to take her instead of the goose. Shall we exchange?" he asked.
"Exchange?" repeated the owner; "not a bad idea!" So it was done; the
turnpike-man got the goose, the peasant the hen.
He had transacted a deal of business since first starting on his way to
the town; hot was he, and wearied too; he must have a dram and a bit of
bread. He was on the point of entering an inn, when the innkeeper met
him in the doorway swinging a sack chock-full of something.
"What have you there?" asked the peasant.
"Mellow apples," was the answer, "a whole sackful for swine."
"What a quantity! wouldn't my wife like to see so many! Why, the last
year we had only one single apple on the whole tree at home. Ah! I wish
my wife could see them!"
"Well, what will you give me for them?"
"Give for them? why, I will give you my hen." So he gave the hen, took
the apples, and entered the inn, and going straight up to the bar, set
his sack upright against the stove without considering that there was a
fire lighted inside. A good many strangers were present, among them two
Englishmen, both with their pockets full of gold, and fond of laying
wagers, as Englishmen in stories are wont to be.
Presently there came a sound from the stove, "Suss--suss--suss!" the
apples were roasting. "What is that?" folk asked, and soon heard the
whole history of the horse that had been exchanged, first for a cow, and
lastly for a sack of rotten apples.
"Well! won't you get a good sound cuff from your wife, when you go
home?" said one of the Englishmen. "Something heavy enough to fell an
ox, I warn you!"
"I shall get kisses, not cuffs," replied the peasant. "My wife will say,
'Whatever the good-man does is right.'"
"A wager!" cried the Englishmen, "for a hundred pounds?"
"Say rather a bushelful," quoth the peasant, "and I can only lay my
bushel of apples with myself and the good-wife, but that will be more
than full measure, I trow."
"Done!" cried they. And the innkeeper's cart was brought out forthwith,
the Englishmen got into it, the peasant got into it, the rotten apples
got into it, and away they sped to the peasant's cottage.
"Good evening, wife."
"Same to you, good-man."
"Well, I have exchanged the horse, not sold it."
"Of course," said the wife, taking his hand, and in her eagerness to
listen noticing neither the sack nor the strangers.
"I exchanged the horse for a cow."
"O! how delightful! now we can have milk, butter, and cheese, on our
table. What a capital idea!"
"Yes, but I exchanged the cow for a sheep."
"Better and better!" cried the wife. "You are always so thoughtful; we
have only just grass enough for a sheep. But now we shall have ewe's
milk, and ewe's cheese, and woolen stockings, nay, woolen jackets too;
and a cow would not give us that; she loses all her hairs. But you are
always such a clever fellow."
"But the ewe I exchanged again for a goose."
"What! shall we really keep Michaelmas this year, good-man? You are
always thinking of what will please me, and that was a beautiful
thought. The goose can be tethered to the willow-tree and grow fat for
Michaelmas Day."
"But I gave the goose away for a hen," said the peasant.
"A hen? well, that was a good exchange," said his wife. "A hen will lay
eggs, sit upon them, and we shall have chickens. Fancy! a hen-yard! that
is just the thing I have always wished for most."
"Ah, but I exchanged the hen for a sack of mellow apples."
"Then I must give thee a kiss," cried the wife. "Thanks, my own husband.
And now I have something to tell. When you were gone I thought how I
could get a right good dinner ready for you: omelets with parsley. Now I
had the eggs, but not the parsley. So I went over to the schoolmaster's;
they have parsley, I know, but the woman is so crabbed, she wanted
something for it. Now what could I give her? nothing grows in our
garden, not even a rotten apple, not even that had I for her; but now I
can give her ten, nay, a whole sackful. That is famous, good-man!" and
she kissed him again.
"Well done!" cried the Englishmen. "Always down hill, and always happy!
Such a sight is worth the money!" And so quite contentedly they paid the
bushelful of gold pieces to the peasant, who had got kisses, not cuffs,
by his bargains.
Certainly virtue is her own reward, when the wife is sure that her
husband is the wisest man in the world, and that whatever he does is
right. So now you have heard this old story that was once told to me,
and I hope have learnt the moral.
[Illustration: WHERE TO LAY THE BLAME]
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 2: Reprinted by special permission from _Stories and Tales_,
by Hans Christian Andersen. Copyright by Houghton, Mifflin Company.]
WHERE TO LAY THE BLAME[3]
Many and many a man has come to trouble--so he will say--by
following his wife's advice. This is how it was with a man of whom
I shall tell you.
THERE was once upon a time a fisherman who had fished all day long and
had caught not so much as a sprat. So at night there he sat by the fire,
rubbing his knees and warming his shins, and waiting for supper that his
wife was cooking for him, and his hunger was as sharp as vinegar, and
his temper hot enough to fry fat.
While he sat there grumbling and growling and trying to make himself
comfortable and warm, there suddenly came a knock at the door. The good
woman opened it, and there stood an old man, clad all in red from head
to foot, and with a snowy beard at his chin as white as winter snow.
The fisherman's wife stood gasping and staring at the strange figure,
but the old man in red walked straight into the hut. "Bring your nets,
fisherman," said he, "and come with me. There is something that I want
you to catch for me, and if I have luck I will pay you for your fishing
as never fisherman was paid before."
"Not I," said the fisherman; "I go out no more this night. I have been
fishing all day long until my back is nearly broken, and have caught
nothing, and now I am not such a fool as to go out and leave a good
supper and a warm fire at your bidding." But the fisherman's wife had
listened to what the old man had said about paying for the job, and she
was of a different mind from her husband. "Come," said she, "the old man
promises to pay you well. This is not a chance to be lost, I can tell
you, and my advice to you is that you go."
The fisherman shook his head. No, he would not go; he had said he would
not, and he would not. But the wife only smiled and said again, "My
advice to you is that you go."
The fisherman grumbled and grumbled, and swore that he would not go. The
wife said nothing but one thing. She did not argue; she did not lose her
temper; she only said to everything that he said, "My advice to you is
that you go."
At last the fisherman's anger boiled over. "Very well," said he,
spitting his words at her; "if you drive me out into the night, I
suppose I will have to go." And then he spoke the words that so many men
say: "Many a man has come to trouble by following his wife's advice."
Then down he took his fur cap and up he took his nets, and off he and
the old man marched through the moonlight, their shadows bobbing along
like black spiders behind them.
Well, on they went, out from the town and across the fields and through
the woods, until at last they came to a dreary, lonesome desert, where
nothing was to be seen but gray rocks and weeds and thistles.
"Well," said the fisherman, "I have fished, man and boy, for forty-seven
years, but never did I see as unlikely a place to catch anything as
this."
But the old man said never a word. First of all he drew a great circle
with strange figures, marking it with his finger upon the ground. Then
out from under his red gown he brought a tinder-box and steel, and a
little silver casket covered all over with strange figures of serpents
and dragons and what not. He brought some sticks of spice-wood from his
pouch, and then he struck a light and made a fire. Out of the box he
took a gray powder, which he flung upon the little blaze.
Puff! flash! A vivid flame went up into the moonlight, and then a dense
smoke as black as ink, which spread out wider and wider, far and near,
till all below was darker than the darkest midnight. Then the old man
began to utter strange spells and words.
Presently there began a rumbling that sounded louder and louder and
nearer and nearer, until it roared and bellowed like thunder. The earth
rocked and swayed, and the poor fisherman shook and trembled with fear
till his teeth chattered in his head.
Then suddenly the roaring and bellowing ceased, and all was as still as
death, though the darkness was as thick and black as ever. "Now," said
the old magician--for such he was--"now we are about to take a journey
such as no one ever traveled before. Heed well what I tell you. Speak
not a single word, for if you do, misfortune will be sure to happen."
"Ain't I to say anything?" said the fisherman.
"No."
"Not even 'boo' to a goose?"
"No."
"Well, that is pretty hard upon a man who likes to say his say," said
the fisherman.
"And moreover," said the old man, "I must blindfold you as well."
Thereupon he took from his pocket a handkerchief, and made ready to tie
it about the fisherman's eyes.
"And ain't I to see anything at all?" said the fisherman.
"No."
"Not even so much as a single feather?"
"No."
"Well, then," said the fisherman, "I wish I'd not come."
But the old man tied the handkerchief tightly around his eyes, and then
he was as blind as a bat.
"Now," said the old man, "throw your leg over what you feel and hold
fast."
The fisherman reached down his hand, and there felt the back of
something rough and hairy. He flung his leg over it, and whisk! whizz!
off he shot through the air like a sky-rocket. Nothing was left for him
to do but grip tightly with hands and feet and to hold fast. On they
went, and on they went, until, after a great while, whatever it was that
was carrying him lit upon the ground, and there the fisherman found
himself standing, for that which had brought him had gone.
The old man whipped the handkerchief off his eyes, and there the
fisherman found himself on the shores of the sea, where there was
nothing to be seen but water upon one side and rocks and naked sand
upon the other.
"This is the place for you to cast your nets," said the old magician;
"for if we catch nothing here we catch nothing at all."
The fisherman unrolled his nets and cast them and dragged them, and then
cast them and dragged them again, but neither time caught so much as a
herring. But the third time that he cast he found that he had caught
something that weighed as heavy as lead. He pulled and pulled, until
by-and-by he dragged the load ashore, and what should it be but a great
chest of wood, blackened by sea-water, and covered with shells and green
moss.
That was the very thing that the magician had come to fish for. From his
pouch the old man took a little golden key, which he fitted into a
key-hole in the side of the chest. He threw back the lid; the fisherman
looked within, and there was the prettiest little palace that man's eye
ever beheld, all made of mother-of-pearl and silver-frosted as white as
snow. The old magician lifted the little palace out of the box and set
it upon the ground.
Then, lo and behold! a marvelous thing happened; for the palace
instantly began to grow for all the world like a soap-bubble, until it
stood in the moonlight gleaming and glistening like snow, the windows
bright with the lights of a thousand wax tapers, and the sound of music
and voices and laughter coming from within.
Hardly could the fisherman catch his breath from one strange thing when
another happened. The old magician took off his clothes and his
face--yes, his face--for all the world as though it had been a mask, and
there stood as handsome and noble a young man as ever the light looked
on. Then, beckoning to the fisherman, dumb with wonder, he led the way
up the great flight of marble steps to the palace door. As he came the
door swung open with a blaze of light, and there stood hundreds of
noblemen, all clad in silks and satins and velvets, who, when they saw
the magician, bowed low before him, as though he had been a king.
Leading the way, they brought the two through halls and chambers and
room after room, each more magnificent than the other, until they came
to one that surpassed a hundredfold any of the others.
At the farther end was a golden throne, and upon it sat a lady more
lovely and beautiful than a dream, her eyes as bright as diamonds, her
cheeks like rose leaves, and her hair like spun gold. She came half-way
down the steps of the throne to welcome the magician, and when the two
met they kissed one another before all those who were looking on. Then
she brought him to the throne and seated him beside her, and there they
talked for a long time very earnestly.
Nobody said a word to the fisherman, who stood staring about him like an
owl. "I wonder," said he to himself at last, "if they will give a body a
bite to eat by-and-by?" for, to tell the truth, the good supper he had
come away from at home had left a sharp hunger gnawing at his insides,
and he longed for something good and warm to fill the empty place. But
time passed, and not so much as a crust of bread was brought to stay his
stomach.
By-and-by the clock struck twelve, and then the two who sat upon the
throne arose. The beautiful lady took the magician by the hand, and,
turning to those who stood around, said, in a loud voice, "Behold him
who alone is worthy to possess the jewel of jewels! Unto him do I give
it, and with it all power of powers!" Thereon she opened a golden casket
that stood beside her, and brought thence a little crystal ball, about
as big as a pigeon's egg, in which was something that glistened like a
spark of fire. The magician took the crystal ball and thrust it into his
bosom; but what it was the fisherman could not guess, and if you do not
know I shall not tell you.
Then for the first time the beautiful lady seemed to notice the
fisherman. She beckoned him, and when he stood beside her two men came
carrying a chest. The chief treasurer opened it, and it was full of bags
of gold money. "How will you have it?" said the beautiful lady.
"Have what?" said the fisherman.
"Have the pay for your labor?" said the beautiful lady.
"I will," said the fisherman, promptly, "take it in my hat."
"So be it," said the beautiful lady. She waved her hand, and the chief
treasurer took a bag from the chest, untied it, and emptied a cataract
of gold into the fur cap. The fisherman had never seen so much wealth in
all his life before, and he stood like a man turned to stone.
"Is all this mine?" said the fisherman.
"It is," said the beautiful lady.
"Then God bless your pretty eyes," said the fisherman.
Then the magician kissed the beautiful lady, and, beckoning to the
fisherman, left the throne room the same way that they had come. The
noblemen, in silks and satins and velvets, marched ahead, and back they
went through the other apartments, until at last they came to the door.
Out they stepped, and then what do you suppose happened!
If the wonderful palace had grown like a bubble, like a bubble it
vanished. There the two stood on the sea-shore, with nothing to be seen
but rocks and sand and water, and the starry sky overhead. The fisherman
shook his cap of gold, and it jingled and tinkled, and was as heavy as
lead. If it was not all a dream, he was rich for life. "But anyhow,"
said he, "they might have given a body a bite to eat."
The magician put on his red clothes and his face again, making himself
as hoary and as old as before. He took out flint and steel, and his
sticks of spice-wood and his gray powder, and made a great fire and
smoke just as he had done before. Then again he tied his handkerchief
over the fisherman's eyes. "Remember," said he, "what I told you when we
started upon our journey. Keep your mouth tight shut, for if you utter
so much as a single word you are a lost man. Now throw your leg over
what you feel and hold fast."
The fisherman had his net over one arm and his cap of gold in the other
hand; nevertheless, there he felt the same hairy thing he had felt
before. He flung his leg over it, and away he was gone through the air
like a sky-rocket.
Now, he had grown somewhat used to strange things by this time, so he
began to think he would like to see what sort of a creature it was upon
which he was riding thus through the sky. So he contrived, in spite of
his net and cap, to push up the handkerchief from over one eye. Out he
peeped, and then he saw what the strange steed was. He was riding upon a
he-goat as black as night, and in front of him was the magician riding
upon just such another, his great red robe fluttering out in the
moonlight like huge red wings.
"Great herring and little fishes!" roared the fisherman; "it is a
billy-goat!"
Instantly goats, old man, and all were gone like a flash. Down fell the
fisherman through the empty sky, whirling over and over and around and
around like a frog. He held tightly to his net, but away flew his fur
cap, the golden money falling in a shower like sparks of yellow light.
Down he fell and down he fell, until his head spun like a top.
By good-luck his house was just below, with its thatch of soft rushes.
Into the very middle of it he tumbled, and right through the
thatch--bump!--into the room below.
The good wife was in bed, snoring away for dear life; but such a noise
as the fisherman made coming into the house was enough to wake the dead.
Up she jumped, and there she sat, staring and winking with sleep, and
with her brains as addled as a duck's egg in a thunderstorm.
"There!" said the fisherman, as he gathered himself up and rubbed his
shoulder, "that is what comes of following a woman's advice!"
[Illustration: THE WINDS, THE BIRDS, AND THE TELEGRAPH WIRES]
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 3: Reprinted by special permission from _Twilight Land,_ by
Howard Pyle. Copyright by Harper & Brothers]
THE WINDS, THE BIRDS, AND THE TELEGRAPH WIRES[4]
LONG, long ago, a hundred times as long as any one can remember, the
Great Earth King became so very, very busy about a great many things
that there were several things that he could not do. So he sat himself
down and rested his great head upon his hand, and thought, and thought,
and thought until he decided that he must have some assistance. He would
advertise for some messengers! So he seized a great brush, as big as a
church steeple, dipped it into the red and golden sunset light, and
wrote in big letters high on the sky, that every one far and near could
read:
WANTED! MESSENGERS! FLEETER THAN HORSES, SWIFTER THAN MEN, TO CARRY
MY MESSAGES, A MILLION TIMES TEN.
and he signed it simply, "The Earth King." Then he went into his rainbow
house and laid himself down to sleep on his rainbow bed.
He had scarcely fallen asleep when there came a _rustle, rustle,
rustle_ at the rainbow window,
and a _rattle, rattle, rattle_ at the rainbow door. He sprang quickly
from his great bed.
"Who be ye?" he asked.
"We be messengers," came the reply, "come to serve the King."
Then the King opened the door. There before him stood four of the
strangest creatures that he had ever seen. They were so light that they
could stand on nothing; they had great wide wings; they had pale faces
and gleaming eyes; and they had light garments that floated and flapped
and fluttered in the breeze.
"What are your names?" asked the King.
"We are the Winds," answered the mightiest of the four, "East Wind, West
Wind, South Wind, North Wind," pointing to each in turn, himself last.
"We have come--
_Fleeter than horses, swifter than men,
To carry your messages, a million times ten._"
Then the King spoke to them in deep and solemn tone: "The task is a
great one. The King's business is grave and important. My messengers
must be swift and faithful. Are ye able?"
Then the four winds piously crossed their breasts with their wings and
whispered, "Try us and see, try us and see, try us and see."
So the King tried them.
"Down by the sea," said the King, "far over the mountains, many hours
away, there lives a fisher folk that I love. Every day the men of the
village go forth in their little boats to fish, and every evening they
come home with their catch. But of late thick and heavy clouds have hung
about them. They have not dared go forth lest they should not reach home
again, and their families begin to be in want. Go to them to-day. Drive
away the fog and clouds that the people may be happy again. Quick!
away!"
Then the four winds lifted their swift, beautiful wings and were gone.
Faster and faster they flew till none could tell how fast they flew.
Over the meadows they went and over the mountains. Each tried to
outwing the others until it became a fierce and careless game. So
blind and careless were they in their sport that they did not notice how
they whirled the sand, and broke the trees, and tossed the water.
Swiftly through the fishing village they tore, hurling its poor houses
to the ground and _crashing, dashing, slashing, smashing_ the waves
upon the fallen wrecks and the frightened and suffering folk.
Not until they were weary with their furious sport did they remember the
errand on which the King had sent them. They retraced their steps as
quickly as they could, but alas! to their shame and grief, the village
lay in ruins and the people wept for their loss.
Then the Earth King was very sad and angry. He brought the shameful
winds before his court. "False and faithless winds," he said, in stern
and awful voice, "ye did not do my errand; ye were traitors to your
trust; great shall be your punishment. Nevermore shall ye be my
messengers, evermore shall ye be my slaves. Away from my sight!"
Then the faithless winds departed from before the face of the King, and
in shame and sorrow went moaning among the caves and the rocks by the
seaside, and sighing among the lonely pine trees in the wilderness, and
even to this day you may hear the echoes of their moans and sighs.
The Earth King was sorrowful, but not discouraged. Again he seized the
great paint brush, as big as a church steeple, dipped it into the red
and golden sunset light, and wrote in big letters high on the sky that
every one far and near could read:
WANTED! MESSENGERS!
FLEETER THAN HORSES,
SWIFTER THAN MEN,
TO CARRY MY MESSAGES,
A MILLION TIMES TEN.
Then he went into his rainbow house and laid himself down on his rainbow
bed. He scarcely had taken forty winks when he heard a _rat-tat-tatting_
on the rainbow window and a _rap-rap-rapping_ on the rainbow door.
Quickly he leaped from his great bed.
"Who be ye?" he asked.
"We be messengers," came a gentle voice through the keyhole, "come to
serve the King."
Then he opened the door, and there before him flitted and twittered a
company of the most curious little people that he ever had set eyes
upon. They had each a pair of beady eyes, a little pointed nose, a set
of little scratchy toes, and the softest kind of a coat, fitting as snug
as ever the tailor could make it.
"What are your names?" asked the King.
"We are the birds, and our names are many. We saw the King's sign in the
sky and have come--
_Fleeter than horses, swifter than men,
To carry your messages, a million times ten."_
Then the King, remembering the Winds, addressed them in very deep and
solemn tones: "The task is a great one. The King's business is exceeding
grave and important. My messengers must be swift and faithful, must
remember my commands and keep my secrets. Are ye able?"
Each bird laid his little scratchy toes on his little pointed nose and
vowed that he would remember the King's commands and keep the King's
secrets.
"Then," said the King, "make ready. Far to the north dwells a people
that I love. For many a month they have lived amid ice and snow and the
bitter frosts. Now they sigh for warmer days, and I have heard them. I
am planning a delightful surprise for them. I am going to carry spring
to them. Go, find the warm sunshine and the soft south wind and bid them
come at once to the King's court, that I may take them and the spring
days to my suffering and discouraged people. Then return with all speed
to the King, and remember --do not betray my secret."
The bird-messengers hastened away as fast as ever their wings could
carry them. They summoned the warm sunshine and the soft south wind and
bade them make haste to the Earth King. They, of course, turned back as
they were commanded, but before they reached home again, each one of
them was seized with a strange, restless, uneasy feeling right in the
middle of his feathers. It must have been the secret trying to get out.
One by one they stole past the King's house under cover of the night and
made their way to the north country. And when the morning came, there
they were, sitting on the fence posts and in the apple trees, just
bursting with the happy secret of the King.
_Then the robin pipped, and the bluebird blew;
The sparrow chipped, and the swallow, too:
"We know something,--we won't tell,--
Somebody's coming,--you know well.
This is his name ('twixt you and me),
S-P-R-I-N-G."_
The people were very happy when they heard what the birds said, and with
much excitement began to get ready for the springtime.
Now, of course, the King knew nothing about all this, and was very happy
in thinking of the surprise that he was to give the people. He took the
warm sunshine and the soft south wind for companions, and made his way
in all haste to the land of ice and snow. As he arrived, with his
delightful secret, as he thought, hidden in his heart, he was amazed to
find an old woman sitting in her doorway knitting.
"Why are you sitting here?" he asked. "Why are you not within, warming
your feet by the fire?"
"Why, don't you know?" she said, "spring is coming!"
"Spring?" he asked, almost roughly; "how do you know?"
"Oh," said she with a smile, trying not to look at a robin that turned
his back behind the picket fence, hoping that if the King saw him he
might think he was an English sparrow, "a little bird told me."
The King walked up the street, looking gloomy enough, and soon came
across a gardener with his rake, uncovering the crocuses and the
daffodils.
"Why do you do this, my good man? Surely your flowers will freeze. You
had much better be covering them up."
"Oh, no," he said, straightening his bent back, "spring is coming."
"Spring," said the King; "how do _you_ know?"
"Oh," said the gardener, with a grin, and a twinkle in his left eye, as
he caught sight of a bluebird peeking half-scared around the limb of a
near-by apple tree, "a little bird told me."
Then the disgraceful story all came out: that
_The robin pipped, and the bluebird blew;
The sparrow chipped, and the swallow, too:
"We know something,--we won't tell,--
Somebody's coming,--you know well.
This is his name ('twixt you and me),
S-P-R-I-N-G."_
My! but wasn't the Earth King disgusted! And weren't the bird-messengers
ashamed to come when he sternly called them! Each laid his little
pointed nose on his little scratchy toes, and dropped his eyes and
uttered never a word.
"Silly birds," he said in scornful voice. "You vowed to keep my secrets.
You have broken your vow. You obeyed my commands and called the south
wind and the sunshine; so I cannot be too harsh with you. But you cannot
keep my secrets, so I cannot keep you as my messengers. Now and then I
may use you as my servants. Adieu!"
Then the birds flew sadly away as quietly and quickly as ever they
could, and set to work building their nests in holes in the trees and
holes in the ground and in out-of-the-way places, making such a
chattering meantime that neither they, nor any one else, could hear
themselves think.
By this time the Earth King was nearly discouraged. He did not know what
in the world to do. He rested his elbow on his knee and his great head
in his hand and thought and wondered. Then once again he rose and took
the great brush and wrote the same big words on the sky. And for very
weariness he lay down on a great bank of clouds and soon was sound
asleep. As he slept, the cloud grew bigger and bigger and blacker and
blacker, and the thunder came nearer and nearer until, all at once,
CRASH-CRASH--the cloud seemed torn to pieces and the King leaped to his
feet half-scared to death, even if he was a King. There before him,
darting this way and that way, and up and down, and across-ways, was a
swarm of little red-hot creatures that hissed and buzzed and cracked
like the Fourth of July.
"Who are you?" he asked in half-fright as he rubbed his eyes, "and what
do you want?"
"Messengers, messengers, messengers," whispered they all at once, "and
we have come to serve the King."
"What are your names?"
"We are the Lightning Spirits; sometimes men call us Electricity--
_The swiftest creatures that are known to men,
To carry your messages, a million times ten."_
The King charged them gravely and solemnly, as he had done the winds and
the birds before them, that his messengers must be true and faithful and
must keep his secrets. But no matter how great the task nor how heavy
the oaths with which he bound them to be faithful, they were eager, all
of them, to serve the King. Only he must build road-ways for them. They
had not wings to fly, and their feet were not accustomed to the highways
of the land. They might lose their way. So the King decided to try them.
He called his laborers and ordered them to erect tall poles, and from
pole to pole to lay slender roadways of wire. Miles and miles of these
roadways he built, over the hills and through the valleys. And when all
was complete, he called the spirits to him and whispered to them his
secret messages. Quick as thought they ran over the little roadways,
hither and thither, and back again, doing faithfully and well the King's
errands and keeping the King's secrets. They whispered never so much as
a word of them. So the Earth King called a great assembly, and before
them all appointed the Lightning Spirits to be his trusted messengers
for ever and a day.
Of course the winds were very jealous when they heard of it, and they
determined to get revenge by stealing the messages from the spirits.
They dashed against the wires day after day, trying to break them and
get the secrets, but all to no purpose. All they could hear was
MUM-MUM-MUM-M-M; and the harder they blew, the louder they heard it.
The birds had all along been sorry that they had given away the great
secret, and had been hoping that the King would give them another
chance. They were much too gentle to do as the winds did. But they were
very curious to find out what the King's messages were. So day after day
they went to the wires and sat upon them and snuggled down as close to
them as they could get and listened hard, putting now the right ear down
and now the left--but all they could ever hear was MUM-MUM-MUM-M-M-M-M.
_And they seem never to have got over that habit!_ If you want to find
out for yourself the truth of this tale, _you go_ some day when the wind
is blowing against the wires and the birds are sitting upon them,
snuggled close, and put your ear to a telegraph pole and all _you_ will
hear is MUM-MUM-MUM-M-M-M.
[Illustration: CATHKA AND THE DEVIL]
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 4: By permission of the publishers from _The City That Never
Was Reached,_ by Dr. Jay T. Stocking. Copyright by _The Pilgrim Press_.]
KATCHA AND THE DEVIL[5]
THE STORY OF A CLINGING VINE
THERE was once a woman named Katcha who lived in a village where she
owned her own cottage and garden. She had money besides but little good
it did her because she was such an ill-tempered vixen that nobody, not
even the poorest laborer, would marry her. Nobody would even work for
her, no matter what she paid, for she couldn't open her mouth without
scolding, and whenever she scolded she raised her shrill voice until you
could hear it a mile away. The older she grew the worse she became until
by the time she was forty she was as sour as vinegar.
Now as it always happens in a village, every Sunday afternoon there was
a dance either at the burgomaster's, or at the tavern. As soon as the
bagpipes sounded, the boys all crowded into the room and the girls
gathered outside and looked in the windows. Katcha was always the first
at the window. The music would strike up and the boys would beckon the
girls to come in and dance, but no one ever beckoned Katcha. Even when
she paid the piper no one ever asked her to dance. Yet she came Sunday
after Sunday just the same.
One Sunday afternoon as she was hurrying to the tavern she thought to
herself: "Here I am getting old and yet I've never once danced with a
boy! Plague take it, to-day I'd dance with the devil if he asked me!"
She was in a fine rage by the time she reached the tavern, where she sat
down near the stove and looked around to see what girls the boys had
invited to dance.
Suddenly a stranger in hunter's green came in. He sat down at a table
near Katcha and ordered drink. When the serving maid brought the beer,
he reached over to Katcha and asked her to drink with him. At first she
was much taken back at this attention, then she pursed her lips coyly
and pretended to refuse, but finally she accepted.
When they had finished drinking, he pulled a ducat from his pocket,
tossed it to the piper, and called out:
"Clear the floor, boys! This is for Katcha and me alone!"
The boys snickered and the girls giggled, hiding behind each other and
stuffing their aprons into their mouths so that Katcha wouldn't hear
them laughing. But Katcha wasn't noticing them at all. Katcha was
dancing with a fine young man! If the whole world had been laughing at
her, Katcha wouldn't have cared.
The stranger danced with Katcha all afternoon and all evening. Not once
did he dance with any one else. He bought her marzipan and sweet drinks
and, when the hour came to go home, he escorted her through the village.
"Ah," sighed Katcha when they reached her cottage and it was time to
part, "I wish I could dance with you forever!"
"Very well," said the stranger. "Come with me."
"Where do you live?"
"Put your arm around my neck and I'll tell you."
Katcha put both arms about his neck and instantly the man changed into a
devil and flew straight down to hell.
At the gates of hell he stopped and knocked.
His comrades came and opened the gates and when they saw that he was
exhausted, they tried to take Katcha off his neck. But Katcha held on
tight and nothing they could do or say would make her budge.
The devil finally had to appear before the Prince of Darkness himself
with Katcha still glued to his neck.
"What's that thing you've got around your neck?" the Prince asked.
So the devil told how as he was walking about on earth he had heard
Katcha say she would dance with the devil himself if he asked her. "So I
asked her to dance with me," the devil said. "Afterwards just to
frighten her a little I brought her down to hell. And now she won't let
go of me!"
"Serve you right, you dunce!" the Prince said. "How often have I told
you to use common sense when you go wandering around on earth! You might
have known Katcha would never let go of a man once she had him!"
"I beg your Majesty to make her let go!" the poor devil implored.
"I will not!" said the Prince. "You'll have to carry her back to earth
yourself and get rid of her as best you can. Perhaps this will be a
lesson to you."
So the devil, very tired and very cross, shambled back to earth with
Katcha still clinging to his neck. He tried every way to get her off. He
promised her wooded hills and rich meadows if she but let him go. He
cajoled her, he cursed her, but all to no avail. Katcha still held on.
Breathless and discouraged he came at last to a meadow where a
shepherd, wrapped in a great shaggy sheepskin coat, was tending his
flocks. The devil transformed himself into an ordinary looking man so
that the shepherd didn't recognize him.
"Hi, there," the shepherd said, "what's that you're carrying?"
"Don't ask me," the devil said with a sigh. "I'm so worn out I'm nearly
dead. I was walking yonder not thinking of anything at all when along
comes a woman and jumps on my back and won't let go. I'm trying to carry
her to the nearest village to get rid of her there, but I don't believe
I'm able. My legs are giving out."
The shepherd, who was a good-natured chap, said: "I tell you what: I'll
help you. I can't leave my sheep long, but I'll carry her halfway."
"Oh," said the devil, "I'd be very grateful if you did!"
So the shepherd yelled at Katcha: "Hi, there, you! Catch hold of me!"
When Katcha saw that the shepherd was a handsome youth, she let go of
the devil and leapt upon the shepherd's back, catching hold of the
collar of his sheepskin coat.
Now the young shepherd soon found that the long shaggy coat and Katcha
made a pretty heavy load for walking. In a few moments he was sick of
his bargain and began casting about for some way of getting rid of
Katcha.
Presently he came to a pond and he thought to himself that he'd like to
throw her in. He wondered how he could do it. Perhaps he could manage it
by throwing in his greatcoat with her. The coat was so loose that he
thought he could slip out of it without Katcha's discovering what he was
doing. Very cautiously he slipped out one arm. Katcha didn't move. He
slipped out the other arm. Still Katcha didn't move. He unlooped the
first button. Katcha noticed nothing. He unlooped the second button.
Still Katcha noticed nothing. He unlooped the third button and kerplunk!
he had pitched coat and Katcha and all into the middle of the pond!
When he got back to his sheep, the devil looked at him in amazement.
"Where's Katcha?" he gasped.
"Oh," the shepherd said, pointing over his shoulder with his thumb, "I
decided to leave her up yonder in a pond."
"My dear friend," the devil cried, "I thank you! You have done me a
great favor. If it hadn't been for you I might be carrying Katcha till
dooms-day. I'll never forget you and some time I'll reward you. As you
don't know who it is you've helped, I must tell you I'm a devil."
With these words the devil vanished.
For a moment the shepherd was dazed. Then he laughed and said to
himself: "Well, if they're all as stupid as he is, we ought to be able
for them!"