Beneath the porch of the country-seat called Tanglewood, one fine
autumnal morning, was assembled a merry party of little folks, with a
tall youth in the midst of them. They had planned a nutting
expedition, and were impatiently waiting for the mists to roll up the
hill-slopes, and for the sun to pour the warmth of the Indian summer
over the fields and pastures, and into the nooks of the many-colored
woods. There was a prospect of as fine a day as ever gladdened the
aspect of this beautiful and comfortable world. As yet, however, the
morning mist filled up the whole length and breadth of the valley,
above which, on a gently sloping eminence, the mansion stood.
This body of white vapor extended to within less than a hundred yards
of the house. It completely hid everything beyond that distance,
except a few ruddy or yellow tree-tops, which here and there emerged,
and were glorified by the early sunshine, as was likewise the broad
surface of the mist. Four or five miles off to the southward rose the
summit of Monument Mountain, and seemed to be floating on a cloud.
Some fifteen miles farther away, in the same direction, appeared the
loftier Dome of Taconic, looking blue and indistinct, and hardly so
substantial as the vapory sea that almost rolled over it. The nearer
hills, which bordered the valley, were half submerged, and were
specked with little cloud-wreaths all the way to their tops. On the
whole, there was so much cloud, and so little solid earth, that it had
the effect of a vision.
The children above-mentioned, being as full of life as they could
hold, kept overflowing from the porch of Tanglewood, and scampering
along the gravel-walk, or rushing across the dewy herbage of the lawn.
I can hardly tell how many of these small people there were; not less
than nine or ten, however, nor more than a dozen, of all sorts, sizes,
and ages, whether girls or boys. They were brothers, sisters, and
cousins, together with a few of their young acquaintances, who had
been invited by Mr. and Mrs. Pringle to spend some of this delightful
weather with their own children at Tanglewood. I am afraid to tell you
their names, or even to give them any names which other children have
ever been called by; because, to my certain knowledge, authors
sometimes get themselves into great trouble by accidentally giving the
names of real persons to the characters in their books. For this
reason I mean to call them Primrose, Periwinkle, Sweet Fern,
Dandelion, Blue Eye, Clover, Huckleberry, Cowslip, Squash-Blossom,
Milkweed, Plantain, and Buttercup; although, to be sure, such titles
might better suit a group of fairies than a company of earthly
children.
It is not to be supposed that these little folks were to be permitted
by their careful fathers and mothers, uncles, aunts, or grandparents,
to stray abroad into the woods and fields, without the guardianship of
some particularly grave and elderly person. Oh, no, indeed! In the
first sentence of my book, you will recollect that I spoke of a tall
youth, standing in the midst of the children. His name--(and I shall
let you know his real name, because he considers it a great honor to
have told the stories that are here to be printed)--his name was
Eustace Bright. He was a student at Williams College, and had reached,
I think, at this period, the venerable age of eighteen years; so that
he felt quite like a grandfather towards Periwinkle, Dandelion,
Huckleberry, Squash-Blossom, Milkweed, and the rest, who were only
half or a third as venerable as he. A trouble in his eyesight (such as
many students think it necessary to have, nowadays, in order to prove
their diligence at their books) had kept him from college a week or
two after the beginning of the term. But, for my part, I have seldom
met with a pair of eyes that looked as if they could see farther or
better than those of Eustace Bright.
This learned student was slender, and rather pale, as all Yankee
students are; but yet of a healthy aspect, and as light and active as
if he had wings to his shoes. By the by, being much addicted to
wading through streamlets and across meadows, he had put on cowhide
boots for the expedition. He wore a linen blouse, a cloth cap, and a
pair of green spectacles, which he had assumed, probably, less for the
preservation of his eyes than for the dignity that they imparted to
his countenance. In either case, however, he might as well have let
them alone; for Huckleberry, a mischievous little elf, crept behind
Eustace as he sat on the steps of the porch, snatched the spectacles
from his nose, and clapped them on her own; and as the student forgot
to take them back, they fell off into the grass, and lay there till
the next spring.
Now, Eustace Bright, you must know, had won great fame among the
children, as a narrator of wonderful stories; and though he sometimes
pretended to be annoyed, when they teased him for more, and more, and
always for more, yet I really doubt whether he liked anything quite so
well as to tell them. You might have seen his eyes twinkle, therefore,
when Clover, Sweet Fern, Cowslip, Buttercup, and most of their
playmates, besought him to relate one of his stories, while they were
waiting for the mist to clear up.
"Yes, Cousin Eustace," said Primrose, who was a bright girl of twelve,
with laughing eyes, and a nose that turned up a little, "the morning
is certainly the best time for the stories with which you so often
tire out our patience. We shall be in less danger of hurting your
feelings, by falling asleep at the most interesting points,--as little
Cowslip and I did last night!"
"Naughty Primrose," cried Cowslip, a child of six years old; "I did
not fall asleep, and I only shut my eyes, so as to see a picture of
what Cousin Eustace was telling about. His stories are good to hear at
night, because we can dream about them asleep; and good in the
morning, too, because then we can dream about them awake. So I hope he
will tell us one this very minute."
"Thank you, my little Cowslip," said Eustace; "certainly you shall
have the best story I can think of, if it were only for defending me
so well from that naughty Primrose. But, children, I have already told
you so many fairy tales, that I doubt whether there is a single one
which you have not heard at least twice over. I am afraid you will
fall asleep in reality, if I repeat any of them again."
"No, no, no!" cried Blue Eye, Periwinkle, Plantain, and half a dozen
others. "We like a story all the better for having heard it two or
three times before."
And it is a truth, as regards children, that a story seems often to
deepen its mark in their interest, not merely by two or three, but by
numberless repetitions. But Eustace Bright, in the exuberance of his
resources, scorned to avail himself of an advantage which an older
story-teller would have been glad to grasp at.
"It would be a great pity," said he, "if a man of my learning (to say
nothing of original fancy) could not find a new story every day, year
in and year out, for children such as you. I will tell you one of the
nursery tales that were made for the amusement of our great old
grandmother, the Earth, when she was a child in frock and pinafore.
There are a hundred such; and it is a wonder to me that they have not
long ago been put into picture-books for little girls and boys. But,
instead of that, old gray-bearded grandsires pore over them in musty
volumes of Greek, and puzzle themselves with trying to find out when,
and how, and for what they were made."
"Well, well, well, well, Cousin Eustace!" cried all the children at
once; "talk no more about your stories, but begin."
"Sit down, then, every soul of you," said Eustace Bright, "and be all
as still as so many mice. At the slightest interruption, whether from
great, naughty Primrose, little Dandelion, or any other, I shall bite
the story short off between my teeth, and swallow the untold part.
But, in the first place, do any of you know what a Gorgon is?"
"I do," said Primrose.
"Then hold your tongue!" rejoined Eustace, who had rather she would
have known nothing about the matter. "Hold all your tongues, and I
shall tell you a sweet pretty story of a Gorgon's head."
And so he did, as you may begin to read on the next page. Working up
his sophomorical erudition with a good deal of tact, and incurring
great obligations to Professor Anthon, he, nevertheless, disregarded
all classical authorities, whenever the vagrant audacity of his
imagination impelled him to do so.