"Help me now, so that I may not be hanged," said the soldier. And the

dogs fell upon the Judge and all the Council, seized one by the leg and

another by the nose, and tossed them all many feet into the air, so that

they fell down and were all broken to pieces.

"I won't!" cried the King; but the biggest dog took him and the Queen

and threw them after the others. Then the soldiers were afraid, and the

people cried, "Little soldier, you shall be our King, and marry the

beautiful Princess!"

So they put the soldier into the King's coach, and all the three dogs

darted on in front and cried "Hurrah!" and the boys whistled through

their fingers, and the soldiers presented arms. The Princess came out of

the copper castle, and became Queen, and she liked that well enough. The

wedding lasted a week, and the three dogs sat at the table too, and

opened their eyes wider than ever at all they saw.

197

The following is one of Andersen's early

stories, published in 1838. It has always been

a great favorite. Whimsically odd couples, in

this case so constant in their devotion to each

other, seemed to appeal to Andersen. The

romance of the Whip Top and the Ball in the

little story "The Lovers" deals with another

odd couple. "Constant" or "steadfast" are terms

sometimes used in the different versions

instead of "hardy," and, if they seem better to

carry the meaning intended, teachers should

feel free to substitute one of them in telling

or reading the story. The translation is by H.

W. Dulcken.

THE HARDY TIN SOLDIER

HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN

There were once five-and-twenty tin soldiers; they were all brothers,

for they had all been born of one old tin spoon. They shouldered their

muskets, and looked straight before them; their uniform was red and

blue, and very splendid. The first thing they had heard in the world,

when the lid was taken off their box, had been the words, "Tin

soldiers!" These words were uttered by a little boy, clapping his hands:

the soldiers had been given to him, for it was his birthday; and now he

put them upon the table. Each soldier was exactly like the rest; but one

of them had been cast last of all, and there had not been enough tin to

finish him; but he stood as firmly upon his one leg as the others on

their two; and it was just this Soldier who became remarkable.

On the table on which they had been placed stood many other playthings,

but the toy that attracted most attention was a neat castle of

cardboard. Through the little windows one could see straight into the

hall. Before the castle some little trees were placed round a little

looking-glass, which was to represent a clear lake. Waxen swans swam on

this lake, and were mirrored in it. This was all very pretty; but the

prettiest of all was a little lady, who stood at the open door of the

castle; she was also cut out in paper, but she had a dress of the

clearest gauze, and a little narrow blue ribbon over her shoulders, that

looked like a scarf; and in the middle of this ribbon was a shining

tinsel rose as big as her whole face. The little lady stretched out both

her arms, for she was a dancer; and then she lifted one leg so high that

the Tin Soldier could not see it at all, and thought that, like himself,

she had but one leg.

"That would be the wife for me," thought he; "but she is very grand. She

lives in a castle, and I have only a box, and there are five-and-twenty

of us in that. It is no place for her. But I must try to make

acquaintance with her."

And then he lay down at full length behind a snuff-box which was on the

table; there he could easily watch the little dainty lady, who continued

to stand upon one leg without losing her balance.

When the evening came all the other tin soldiers were put into their

box, and the people in the house went to bed. Now the toys began to play

at "visiting," and at "war," and "giving balls." The tin soldiers

rattled in their box, for they wanted to join, but could not lift the

lid. The nutcracker threw somersaults, and the pencil amused itself on

the table; there was so much noise that the canary woke up, and began to

speak too, and even in verse. The only two who did not stir from their

places were the Tin Soldier and the Dancing Lady: she stood straight up

on the point of one of her toes, and stretched out both her arms; and he

was just as enduring on his one leg; and he never turned his eyes away

from her.

Now the clock struck twelve--and, bounce! the lid flew off the

snuff-box; but there was no snuff in it, but a little black Goblin: you

see, it was a trick.

"Tin Soldier!" said the Goblin, "don't stare at things that don't

concern you."

But the Tin Soldier pretended not to hear him.

"Just you wait till to-morrow!" said the Goblin.

But when the morning came, and the children got up, the Tin Soldier was

placed in the window; and whether it was the Goblin or the draught that

did it, all at once the window flew open, and the Soldier fell head

over heels out of the third story. That was a terrible passage! He put

his leg straight up, and stuck with helmet downward and his bayonet

between the paving-stones.

The servant-maid and the little boy came down directly to look for him,

but though they almost trod upon him, they could not see him. If the

Soldier had cried out "Here I am!" they would have found him; but he did

not think it fitting to call out loudly, because he was in uniform.

Now it began to rain; the drops soon fell thicker, and at last it came

down into a complete stream. When the rain was past, two street boys

came by.

"Just look!" said one of them, "there lies a Tin Soldier. He must come

out and ride in the boat."

And they made a boat out of a newspaper, and put the Tin Soldier in the

middle of it, and so he sailed down the gutter, and the two boys ran

beside him and clapped their hands. Goodness preserve us! how the waves

rose in that gutter, and how fast the stream ran! But then it had been a

heavy rain. The paper boat rocked up and down, and sometimes turned

round so rapidly that the Tin Soldier trembled; but he remained firm,

and never changed countenance, and looked straight before him, and

shouldered his musket.

All at once the boat went into a long drain, and it became as dark as if

he had been in his box.

"Where am I going now?" he thought. "Yes, yes, that's the Goblin's

fault. Ah! if the little lady only sat here with me in the boat, it

might be twice as dark for what I should care."

Suddenly there came a great Water Rat, which lived under the drain.

"Have you a passport?" said the Rat. "Give me your passport."

But the Tin Soldier kept silence, and held his musket tighter than ever.

The boat went on, but the Rat came after it. Hu! how he gnashed his

teeth, and called out to the bits of straw and wood:

"Hold him! hold him! He hasn't paid toll--he hasn't shown his passport!"

But the stream became stronger and stronger. The Tin Soldier could see

the bright daylight where the arch ended; but he heard a roaring noise

which might well frighten a bolder man. Only think--just where the

tunnel ended, the drain ran into a great canal; and for him that would

have been as dangerous as for us to be carried down a great waterfall.

Now he was already so near it that he could not stop. The boat was

carried out, the poor Tin Soldier stiffening himself as much as he

could, and no one could say that he moved an eyelid. The boat whirled

round three or four times, and was full of water to the very edge--it

must sink. The Tin Soldier stood up to his neck in water, and the boat

sank deeper and deeper, and the paper was loosened more and more; and

now the water closed over the soldier's head. Then he thought of the

pretty little Dancer, and how he should never see her again; and it

sounded in the soldier's ears:

Farewell, farewell, thou warrior brave,

For this day thou must die!

And now the paper parted, and the Tin Soldier fell out; but at that

moment he was snapped up by a great fish.

Oh, how dark it was in that fish's body! It was darker yet than in the

drain tunnel; and then it was very narrow too. But the Tin Soldier

remained unmoved, and lay at full length shouldering his musket.

The fish swam to and fro; he made the most wonderful movements, and then

became quite still. At last something flashed through him like

lightning. The daylight shone quite clear, and a voice said aloud, "The

Tin Soldier!" The fish had been caught, carried to market, bought, and

taken into the kitchen, where the cook cut him open with a large knife.

She seized the Soldier round the body with both her hands and carried

him into the room, where all were anxious to see the remarkable man who

had traveled about in the inside of a fish; but the Tin Soldier was not

at all proud. They placed him on the table, and there--no! What curious

things may happen in the world. The Tin Soldier was in the very room in

which he had been before! He saw the same children, and the same toys

stood on the table; and there was the pretty castle with the graceful

little Dancer. She was still balancing herself on one leg, and held the

other extended in the air. She was hardy too. That moved the Tin

Soldier; he was very nearly weeping tin tears, but that would not have

been proper. He looked at her, but they said nothing to each other.

Then one of the little boys took the Tin Soldier and flung him into the

stove. He gave no reason for doing this. It must have been the fault of

the Goblin in the snuff-box.

The Tin Soldier stood there quite illuminated, and felt a heat that was

terrible; but whether this heat proceeded from the real fire or from

love he did not know. The colors had quite gone off from him; but

whether that had happened on the journey, or had been caused by grief,

no one could say. He looked at the little lady, she looked at him, and

he felt that he was melting; but he still stood firm, shouldering his

musket. Then suddenly the door flew open, and the draught of air caught

the Dancer, and she flew like a sylph just into the stove to the Tin

Soldier, and flashed up in a flame, and she was gone. Then the Tin

Soldier melted down into a lump; and when the servant-maid took the

ashes out next day, she found him in the shape of a little tin heart.

But of the Dancer nothing remained but the tinsel rose, and that was

burned as black as a coal.

198

"The Ugly Duckling" has always been regarded as

one of Andersen's most exquisite stories. No

one can fail to notice the parallel that

suggests itself between the successive stages

in the duckling's history and those in

Andersen's own life. In this story, remarks Dr.

Brandes, "there is the quintessence of the

author's entire life (melancholy, humor,

martyrdom, triumph) and of his whole nature:

the gift of observation and the sparkling

intellect which he used to avenge himself upon

folly and wickedness, the varied faculties

which constitute his genius." The standards of

judgment used by the ducks, the turkey, the

hen, and the cat are all delightfully and

humorously satirical of human stupidity and

shortsightedness. The translation used is by H.

W. Dulcken.

THE UGLY DUCKLING

HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN

It was glorious out in the country. It was summer, and the cornfields

were yellow, and the oats were green; the hay had been put up in stacks

in the green meadows, and the stork went about on his long red legs, and

chattered Egyptian, for this was the language he had learned from his

good mother. All around the fields and meadows were great forests, and

in the midst of these forests lay deep lakes. Yes, it was really

glorious out in the country. In the midst of the sunshine there lay an

old farm, surrounded by deep canals, and from the wall down to the water

grew great burdocks, so high that little children could stand upright

under the loftiest of them. It was just as wild there as in the deepest

wood. Here sat a Duck upon her nest, for she had to hatch her young

ones; but she was almost tired out before the little ones came; and then

she so seldom had visitors. The other ducks liked better to swim about

in the canals than to run up to sit down under a burdock and cackle with

her.

At last one eggshell after another burst open. "Piep! piep!" it cried,

and in all the eggs there were little creatures that stuck out their

heads.

"Rap! rap!" they said; and they all came rapping out as fast as they

could, looking all round them under the green leaves; and the mother let

them look as much as they chose, for green is good for the eyes.

"How wide the world is!" said the young ones, for they certainly had

much more room now than when they were in the eggs.

"Do you think this is all the world!" asked the mother. "That extends

far across the other side of the garden, quite into the parson's field,

but I have never been there yet. I hope you are all together," she

continued, and stood up. "No, I have not all. The largest egg still lies

there. How long is that to last? I am really tired of it." And she sat

down again.

"Well, how goes it?" asked an old Duck who had come to pay her a visit.

"It lasts a long time with that one egg," said the Duck who sat there.

"It will not burst. Now, only look at the others; are they not the

prettiest ducks one could possibly see? They are all like their father;

the bad fellow never comes to see me."

"Let me see the egg which will not burst," said the old visitor.

"Believe me, it is a turkey's egg. I was once cheated in that way, and

had much anxiety and trouble with the young ones, for they are afraid of

the water. I could not get them to venture in. I quacked and clucked,

but it was of no use. Let me see the egg. Yes, that's a turkey's egg!

Let it lie there, and you teach the other children to swim."

"I think I will sit on it a little longer," said the Duck. "I've sat so

long now that I can sit a few days more."

"Just as you please," said the old Duck; and she went away.

At last the great egg burst. "Piep! piep!" said the little one, and

crept forth. It was very large and very ugly. The Duck looked at it.

"It's a very large duckling," said she; "none of the others look like

that; can it really be a turkey chick? Now we shall soon find out. It

must go into the water, even if I have to thrust it in myself."

The next day the weather was splendidly bright, and the sun shone on all

the green trees. The Mother-Duck went down to the water with all her

little ones. Splash! she jumped into the water. "Quack! quack!" she

said, and then one duckling after another plunged in. The water closed

over their heads, but they came up in an instant, and swam capitally;

their legs went of themselves, and there they were, all in the water.

The ugly gray Duckling swam with them.

"No, it's not a turkey," said she; "look how well it can use its legs,

and how upright it holds itself. It is my own child! On the whole it's

quite pretty, if one looks at it rightly. Quack! quack! come with me,

and I'll lead you out into the great world, and present you in the

poultry-yard; but keep close to me, so that no one may tread on you; and

take care of the cats!"

And so they came into the poultry-yard. There was a terrible riot going

on in there, for two families were quarreling about an eel's head, and

the cat got it after all.

"See, that's how it goes in the world!" said the Mother-Duck; and she

whetted her beak, for she, too, wanted the eel's head. "Only use your

legs," she said. "See that you bustle about, and bow your heads before

the old Duck yonder. She's the grandest of all here; she's of Spanish

blood--that's why she's so fat; and do you see, she has a red rag round

her leg; that's something particularly fine, and the greatest

distinction a duck can enjoy; it signifies that one does not want to

lose her, and that she's to be recognized by man and beast. Shake

yourselves--don't turn in your toes; a well-brought-up Duck turns its

toes quite out, just like father and mother, so! Now bend your necks and

say 'Rap!'"

And they did so; but the other Ducks round about looked at them, and

said quite boldly:

"Look there! now we're to have these hanging on, as if there were not

enough of us already! And--fie--! how that Duckling yonder looks; we

won't stand that!" And one duck flew up immediately, and bit it in the

neck.

"Let it alone," said the mother; "it does no harm to anyone."

"Yes, but it's too large and peculiar," said the Duck who had bitten it;

"and therefore it must be buffeted."

"Those are pretty children that the mother has there," said the old Duck

with the rag round her leg. "They're all pretty but that one; that was a

failure. I wish she could alter it."

"That cannot be done, my lady," replied the Mother-Duck. "It is not

pretty, but it has a really good disposition, and swims as well as any

other; I may even say it swims better. I think it will grow up pretty,

and become smaller in time; it has lain too long in the egg, and

therefore is not properly shaped." And then she pinched it in the neck,

and smoothed its feathers. "Moreover, it is a drake," she said, "and

therefore it is not of so much consequence. I think he will be very

strong; he makes his way already."

"The other ducklings are graceful enough," said the old Duck. "Make

yourself at home; and if you find an eel's head, you may bring it me."

And now they were at home. But the poor Duckling which had crept last

out of the egg, and looked so ugly, was bitten and pushed and jeered, as

much by the ducks as by the chickens.

"It is too big!" they all said. And the turkey-cock, who had been born

with spurs, and therefore thought himself an Emperor, blew himself up

like a ship in full sail, and bore straight down upon it; then he

gobbled, and grew quite red in the face. The poor Duckling did not know

where it should stand or walk; it was quite melancholy, because it

looked ugly and was scoffed at by the whole yard.

So it went on the first day; and afterward it became worse and worse.

The poor Duckling was hunted about by every one; even its brothers and

sisters were quite angry with it, and said, "If the cat would only catch

you, you ugly creature!" And the mother said, "If you were only far

away!" And the ducks bit it, and the chickens beat it, and the girl who

had to feed the poultry kicked at it with her foot.

Then it ran and flew over the fence, and the little birds in the bushes

flew up in fear.

"That is because I am so ugly!" thought the Duckling; and it shut its

eyes, but flew no farther; thus it came out into the great moor, where

the Wild Ducks lived. Here it lay the whole night long; and it was weary

and downcast.

Toward morning the Wild Ducks flew up, and looked at their new

companion.

"What sort of a one are you?" they asked; and the Duckling turned in

every direction, and bowed as well as it could. "You are remarkably

ugly!" said the Wild Ducks. "But that is very indifferent to us, so long

as you do not marry into our family."

Poor thing! It certainly did not think of marrying, and only hoped to

obtain leave to lie among the reeds and drink some of the swamp-water.

Thus it lay two whole days; then came thither two Wild Geese, or,

properly speaking, two wild ganders. It was not long since each had

crept out of an egg, and that's why they were so saucy.

"Listen, comrade," said one of them. "You're so ugly that I like you.

Will you go with us, and become a bird of passage? Near here, in another

moor, there are a few sweet lovely wild geese, all unmarried, and all

able to say, 'Rap!' You've a chance of making your fortune, ugly as you

are!"

"Piff! paff!" resounded through the air; and the two ganders fell down

dead in the swamp, and the water became blood-red. "Piff! paff!" it

sounded again, and whole flocks of wild geese rose up from the reeds.

And then there was another report. A great hunt was going on. The

hunters were lying in wait all round the moor, and some were even

sitting up in the branches of the trees, which spread far over the

reeds. The blue smoke rose up like clouds among the dark trees, and was

wafted far away across the water; and the hunting dogs came--splash,

splash!--into the swamp, and the rushes and the reeds bent down on every

side. That was a fright for the poor Duckling! It turned its head, and

put it under its wing; but at that moment a frightful great dog stood

close by the Duckling. His tongue hung far out of his mouth and his eyes

gleamed horrible and ugly; he thrust out his nose close against the

Duckling, showed his sharp teeth, and--splash, splash!--on he went

without seizing it.

"Oh, Heaven be thanked!" sighed the Duckling. "I am so ugly that even

the dog does not like to bite me!"

And so it lay quite quiet, while the shots rattled through the reeds and

gun after gun was fired. At last, late in the day, silence was restored;

but the poor Duckling did not dare to rise up; it waited several hours

before it looked round, and then hastened away out of the moor as fast

as it could. It ran on over field and meadow; there was such a storm

raging that it was difficult to get from one place to another.

Toward evening the Duck came to a little miserable peasant's hut. This

hut was so dilapidated that it did not know on which side it should

fall; and that's why it remained standing. The storm whistled round the

Duckling in such a way that the poor creature was obliged to sit down,

to stand against it; and the tempest grew worse and worse. Then the

Duckling noticed that one of the hinges of the door had given way, and

the door hung so slanting that the Duckling could slip through the crack

into the room; and it did so.

Here lived a woman with her Tom Cat and her Hen. And the Tom Cat, whom

she called Sonnie, could arch his back and purr. He could even give out

sparks; but for that one had to stroke his fur the wrong way. The Hen

had quite little short legs, and therefore she was called

Chickabiddy-shortshanks; she laid good eggs, and the woman loved her as

her own child.

In the morning the strange Duckling was at once noticed, and the Tom Cat

began to purr, and the Hen to cluck.

"What's this?" said the woman, and looked all round; but she could not

see well, and therefore she thought the Duckling was a fat duck that had

strayed. "This is a rare prize," she said. "Now I shall have duck's

eggs. I hope it is not a drake. We must try that."

And so the Duckling was admitted on trial for three weeks; but no eggs

came. And the Tom Cat was master of the house, and the Hen was the lady,

and they always said, "We and the world!" for they thought they were

half the world, and by far the better half. The Duckling thought one

might have a different opinion, but the Hen would not allow it.

"Can you lay eggs?" she asked.

"No."

"Then you'll have the goodness to hold your tongue."

And the Tom Cat said, "Can you curve your back, and purr, and give out

sparks?"

"No."

"Then you cannot have any opinion of your own when sensible people are

speaking."

And the Duckling sat in a corner and was melancholy; then the fresh air

and the sunshine streamed in; and it was seized with such a strange

longing to swim on the water that it could not help telling the Hen of

it.

"What are you thinking of?" cried the Hen. "You have nothing to do;

that's why you have these fancies. Purr or lay eggs, and they will pass

over."

"But it is so charming to swim on the water!" said the Duckling, "so

refreshing to let it close above one's head, and to dive down to the

bottom."

"Yes, that must be a mighty pleasure, truly," quoth the Hen. "I fancy

you must have gone crazy. Ask the Cat about it--he's the cleverest

animal I know--ask him if he likes to swim on the water, or to dive

down: I won't speak about myself. Ask our mistress, the old woman; no

one in the world is cleverer than she. Do you think she has any desire

to swim, and to let the water close above her head?"

"You don't understand me," said the Duckling.

"We don't understand you? Then pray who is to understand you? You surely

don't pretend to be cleverer than the Tom Cat and the old woman--I won't

say anything of myself. Don't be conceited, child, and be grateful for

all the kindness you have received. Did you not get into a warm room,

and have you not fallen into company from which you may learn something?

But you are a chatterer, and it is not pleasant to associate with you.

You may believe me, I speak for your good. I tell you disagreeable

things, and by that one may always know one's true friends. Only take

care that you learn to lay eggs, or to purr and give out sparks!"

"I think I will go out into the wide world," said the Duckling.

"Yes, do go," replied the Hen.

And the Duckling went away. It swam on the water, and dived, but it was

slighted by every creature because of its ugliness.

Now came the autumn. The leaves in the forest turned yellow and brown;

the wind caught them so that they danced about, and up in the air it was

very cold. The clouds hung low, heavy with hail and snow-flakes, and on

the fence stood the raven, crying, "Croak! croak!" for mere cold; yes,

it was enough to make one feel cold to think of this. The poor little

Duckling certainly had not a good time. One evening--the sun was just

setting in his beauty--there came a whole flock of great handsome birds

out of the bushes; they were dazzlingly white, with long flexible necks;

they were swans. They uttered a very peculiar cry, spread forth their

glorious great wings, and flew away from that cold region to warmer

lands, to fair open lakes. They mounted so high, so high! and the ugly

little Duckling felt quite strange as it watched them. It turned round

and round in the water like a wheel, stretched out its neck toward them,

and uttered such a strange loud cry as frightened itself. Oh! it could

not forget those beautiful, happy birds; and so soon as it could see

them no longer, it dived down to the very bottom, and when it came up

again, it was quite beside itself. It knew not the name of those birds,

and knew not whither they were flying; but it loved them more than it

had ever loved anyone. It was not at all envious of them. How could it

think of wishing to possess such loveliness as they had? It would have

been glad if only the ducks would have endured its company--the poor

ugly creature!

And the winter grew cold, very cold! The Duckling was forced to swim

about in the water, to prevent the surface from freezing entirely; but

every night the hole in which it swam about became smaller and smaller.

It froze so hard that the icy covering crackled again; and the Duckling

was obliged to use its legs continually to prevent the hole from

freezing up. At last it became exhausted, and lay quite still, and thus

froze fast into the ice.

Early in the morning a peasant came by, and when he saw what had

happened, he took his wooden shoe, broke the ice-crust to pieces, and

carried the Duckling home to his wife. Then it came to itself again. The

children wanted to play with it; but the Duckling thought they would do

it an injury, and in its terror fluttered up into the milk-pan, so that

the milk spurted down into the room. The woman clapped her hands, at

which the Duckling flew down into the butter-tub, and then into the

meal-barrel and out again. How it looked then! The woman screamed, and

struck at it with the fire-tongs; the children tumbled over one another

in their efforts to catch the Duckling; and they laughed and screamed

finely. Happily the door stood open, and the poor creature was able to

slip out between the shrubs into the newly-fallen snow; and there it

lay quite exhausted.

But it would be too melancholy if I were to tell all the misery and care

which the Duckling had to endure in the hard winter. It lay out on the

moor among the reeds when the sun began to shine again and the larks to

sing; it was a beautiful spring.

Then all at once the Duckling could flap its wings; they beat the air

more strongly than before, and bore it strongly away; and before it well

knew how all this had happened, it found itself in a great garden, where

the elder trees smelt sweet, and bent their long green branches down to

the canal that wound through the region. Oh, here it was so beautiful,

such a gladness of spring! and from the thicket came three glorious

white swans; they rustled their wings, and swam lightly on the water.

The Duckling knew the splendid creatures, and felt oppressed by a

peculiar sadness.

"I will fly away to them, to the royal birds! and they will kill me,

because I, that am so ugly, dare to approach them. But it is of no

consequence! Better to be killed by _them_ than to be pursued by ducks,

and beaten by fowls, and pushed about by the girl who takes care of the

poultry-yard, and to suffer hunger in winter!" And it flew out into the

water, and swam toward the beautiful swans: these looked at it, and came

sailing down upon it with outspread wings. "Kill me!" said the poor

creature, and bent its head down upon the water, expecting nothing but

death. But what was this that it saw in the clear water? It beheld its

own image--and, lo! it was no longer a clumsy dark-gray bird, ugly and

hateful to look at, but--a swan.

It matters nothing if one was born in a duck-yard, if one has only lain

in a swan's egg.

It felt quite glad at all the need and misfortune it had suffered, now

it realized its happiness in all the splendor that surrounded it. And

the great swans swam round it, and stroked it with their beaks.

Into the garden came little children, who threw bread and corn into the

water; the youngest cried, "There is a new one!" and the other children

shouted joyously, "Yes, a new one has arrived!" And they clapped their

hands and danced about, and ran to their father and mother; and bread

and cake were thrown into the water; and they all said, "The new one is

the most beautiful of all! so young and handsome!" and the old swans

bowed their heads before him.

Then he felt quite ashamed, and hid his head under his wing, for he did

not know what to do; he was so happy, and yet not at all proud. He

thought how he had been persecuted and despised; and now he heard them

saying that he was the most beautiful of all the birds. Even the elder

tree bent its branches straight down into the water before him, and the

sun shone warm and mild. Then his wings rustled, he lifted his slender

neck, and cried rejoicingly from the depths of his heart:

"I never dreamed of so much happiness when I was still the Ugly

Duckling!"

199

One of the really successful modern attempts at

telling new fairy stories was _Granny's

Wonderful Chair_ (1857) by the blind poet

Frances Browne (1816-1887). In spite of the

obstacles due to blindness, poverty, and

ill-health, she succeeded in educating herself,

and after achieving some fame as a poet left

her mountain village in county Donegal,

Ireland, to make a literary career in Edinburgh

and London. She published many volumes of

poems, novels, and children's books. Only one

of these is now much read or remembered, but it

has taken a firm place in the affections of

children. In _Granny's Wonderful Chair_ there

are seven stories, set in an interesting

framework which tells of the adventures of the

little girl Snowflower and her chair at the

court of King Winwealth. This chair had magic

power to transport Snowflower wherever she

wished to go, like the magic carpet in the

_Arabian Nights_. When she laid down her head

and said, "Chair of my grandmother, tell me a

story," a clear voice from under the cushion

would at once begin to speak. Besides the story

that follows, two of the most satisfactory in

the collection are "The Greedy Shepherd" and

"The Story of Merrymind." Perhaps one of the

secrets of their charm is in the power of

visualization which the author possessed. The

pictures are all clear and definite, yet

touched with the glamor of fairyland.

THE STORY OF FAIRYFOOT

FRANCES BROWNE

Once upon a time there stood far away in the west country a town called

Stumpinghame. It contained seven windmills, a royal palace, a market

place, and a prison, with every other convenience befitting the capital

of a kingdom. A capital city was Stumpinghame, and its inhabitants

thought it the only one in the world. It stood in the midst of a great

plain, which for three leagues round its walls was covered with corn,

flax, and orchards. Beyond that lay a great circle of pasture land,

seven leagues in breadth, and it was bounded on all sides by a forest so

thick and old that no man in Stumpinghame knew its extent; and the

opinion of the learned was that it reached to the end of the world.

There were strong reasons for this opinion. First, that forest was known

to be inhabited time out of mind by the fairies, and no hunter cared to

go beyond its border--so all the west country believed it to be solidly

full of old trees to the heart. Secondly, the people of Stumpinghame

were no travelers--man, woman, and child had feet so large and heavy

that it was by no means convenient to carry them far. Whether it was the

nature of the place or the people, I cannot tell, but great feet had

been the fashion there time immemorial, and the higher the family the

larger were they. It was, therefore, the aim of everybody above the

degree of shepherds, and such-like rustics, to swell out and enlarge

their feet by way of gentility; and so successful were they in these

undertakings that, on a pinch, respectable people's slippers would have

served for panniers.

Stumpinghame had a king of its own, and his name was Stiffstep; his

family was very ancient and large-footed. His subjects called him Lord

of the World, and he made a speech to them every year concerning the

grandeur of his mighty empire. His queen, Hammerheel, was the greatest

beauty in Stumpinghame. Her majesty's shoe was not much less than a

fishing-boat; their six children promised to be quite as handsome, and

all went well with them till the birth of their seventh son.

For a long time nobody about the palace could understand what was the

matter--the ladies-in-waiting looked so astonished, and the king so

vexed; but at last it was whispered through the city that the queen's

seventh child had been born with such miserably small feet that they

resembled nothing ever seen or heard of in Stumpinghame, except the feet

of the fairies.

The chronicles furnished no example of such an affliction ever before

happening in the royal family. The common people thought it portended

some great calamity to the city; the learned men began to write books

about it; and all the relations of the king and queen assembled at the

palace to mourn with them over their singular misfortune. The whole

court and most of the citizens helped in this mourning, but when it had

lasted seven days they all found out it was of no use. So the relations

went to their homes, and the people took to their work. If the learned

men's books were written, nobody ever read them; and to cheer up the

queen's spirits, the young prince was sent privately out to the pasture

lands, to be nursed among the shepherds.

The chief man there was called Fleecefold, and his wife's name was Rough

Ruddy. They lived in a snug cottage with their son Blackthorn and their

daughter Brownberry, and were thought great people, because they kept

the king's sheep. Moreover, Fleecefold's family were known to be

ancient; and Rough Ruddy boasted that she had the largest feet in all

the pastures. The shepherds held them in high respect, and it grew still

higher when the news spread that the king's seventh son had been sent to

their cottage. People came from all quarters to see the young prince,

and great were the lamentations over his misfortune in having such small

feet.

The king and queen had given him fourteen names, beginning with

Augustus--such being the fashion in that royal family; but the honest

country people could not remember so many; besides, his feet were the

most remarkable thing about the child, so with one accord they called

him Fairyfoot. At first it was feared this might be high treason, but

when no notice was taken by the king or his ministers, the shepherds

concluded it was no harm, and the boy never had another name throughout

the pastures. At court it was not thought polite to speak of him at all.

They did not keep his birthday, and he was never sent for at Christmas,

because the queen and her ladies could not bear the sight. Once a year

the undermost scullion was sent to see how he did, with a bundle of his

next brother's cast-off clothes; and, as the king grew old and cross, it

was said he had thoughts of disowning him.

So Fairyfoot grew in Fleecefold's cottage. Perhaps the country air made

him fair and rosy--for all agreed that he would have been a handsome boy

but for his small feet, with which nevertheless he learned to walk, and

in time to run and to jump, thereby amazing everybody, for such doings

were not known among the children of Stumpinghame. The news of court,

however, traveled to the shepherds, and Fairyfoot was despised among

them. The old people thought him unlucky; the children refused to play

with him. Fleecefold was ashamed to have him in his cottage, but he

durst not disobey the king's orders. Moreover, Blackthorn wore most of

the clothes brought by the scullion. At last, Rough Ruddy found out that

the sight of such horrid jumping would make her children vulgar; and, as

soon as he was old enough, she sent Fairyfoot every day to watch some

sickly sheep that grazed on a wild, weedy pasture, hard by the forest.

Poor Fairyfoot was often lonely and sorrowful; many a time he wished his

feet would grow larger, or that people wouldn't notice them so much; and

all the comfort he had was running and jumping by himself in the wild

pasture, and thinking that none of the shepherds' children could do the

like, for all their pride of their great feet.

Tired of this sport, he was lying in the shadow of a mossy rock one warm

summer's noon, with the sheep feeding around, when a robin, pursued by a

great hawk, flew into the old velvet cap which lay on the ground beside

him. Fairyfoot covered it up, and the hawk, frightened by his shout,

flew away.

"Now you may go, poor robin!" he said, opening the cap: but instead of

the bird, out sprang a little man dressed in russet-brown, and looking

as if he were an hundred years old. Fairyfoot could not speak for

astonishment, but the little man said--

"Thank you for your shelter, and be sure I will do as much for you. Call

on me if you are ever in trouble; my name is Robin Goodfellow"; and

darting off, he was out of sight in an instant. For days the boy

wondered who that little man could be, but he told nobody, for the

little man's feet were as small as his own, and it was clear he would be

no favorite in Stumpinghame. Fairyfoot kept the story to himself, and at

last midsummer came. That evening was a feast among the shepherds. There

were bonfires on the hills, and fun in the villages. But Fairyfoot sat

alone beside his sheepfold, for the children of his village had refused

to let him dance with them about the bonfire, and he had gone there to

bewail the size of his feet, which came between him and so many good

things. Fairyfoot had never felt so lonely in all his life, and

remembering the little man, he plucked up spirit, and cried--

"Ho! Robin Goodfellow!"

"Here I am," said a shrill voice at his elbow; and there stood the

little man himself.

"I am very lonely, and no one will play with me, because my feet are not

large enough," said Fairyfoot.

"Come then and play with us," said the little man. "We lead the merriest

lives in the world, and care for nobody's feet; but all companies have

their own manners, and there are two things you must mind among us:

first, do as you see the rest doing; and secondly, never speak of

anything you may hear or see, for we and the people of this country have

had no friendship ever since large feet came in fashion."

"I will do that, and anything more you like," said Fairyfoot; and the

little man, taking his hand, led him over the pasture into the forest

and along a mossy path among old trees wreathed with ivy (he never knew

how far), till they heard the sound of music and came upon a meadow

where the moon shone as bright as day, and all the flowers of the

year--snowdrops, violets, primroses, and cowslips--bloomed together in

the thick grass. There were a crowd of little men and women, some clad

in russet color, but far more in green, dancing round a little well as

clear as crystal. And under great rose-trees which grew here and there

in the meadow, companies were sitting round low tables covered with cups

of milk, dishes of honey, and carved wooden flagons filled with clear

red wine. The little man led Fairyfoot up to the nearest table, handed

him one of the flagons, and said--

"Drink to the good company."

Wine was not very common among the shepherds of Stumpinghame, and the

boy had never tasted such drink as that before; for scarcely had it gone

down when he forgot all his troubles--how Blackthorn and Brownberry wore

his clothes, how Rough Ruddy sent him to keep the sickly sheep, and the

children would not dance with him: in short, he forgot the whole

misfortune of his feet, and it seemed to his mind that he was a king's

son, and all was well with him. All the little people about the well

cried--"Welcome! welcome!" and every one said--"Come and dance with me!"

So Fairyfoot was as happy as a prince, and drank milk and ate honey till

the moon was low in the sky, and then the little man took him by the

hand, and never stopped nor stayed till he was at his own bed of straw

in the cottage corner.

Next morning Fairyfoot was not tired for all his dancing. Nobody in the

cottage had missed him, and he went out with the sheep as usual; but

every night all that summer, when the shepherds were safe in bed, the

little man came and took him away to dance in the forest. Now he did not

care to play with the shepherds' children, nor grieve that his father

and mother had forgotten him, but watched the sheep all day, singing to

himself or plaiting rushes; and when the sun went down, Fairyfoot's

heart rejoiced at the thought of meeting that merry company.

The wonder was that he was never tired nor sleepy, as people are apt to

be who dance all night; but before the summer was ended Fairyfoot found

out the reason. One night, when the moon was full, and the last of the

ripe corn rustling in the fields, Robin Goodfellow came for him as

usual, and away they went to the flowery green. The fun there was high,

and Robin was in haste. So he only pointed to the carved cup from which

Fairyfoot every night drank the clear red wine.

"I am not thirsty, and there is no use losing time," thought the boy to

himself, and he joined the dance; but never in all his life did

Fairyfoot find such hard work as to keep pace with the company. Their

feet seemed to move like lightning, the swallows did not fly so fast or

turn so quickly. Fairyfoot did his best, for he never gave in easily,

but at length, his breath and strength being spent, the boy was glad to

steal away and sit down behind a mossy oak, where his eyes closed for

very weariness. When he awoke the dance was nearly over, but two little

ladies clad in green talked close beside him.

"What a beautiful boy!" said one of them. "He is worthy to be a king's

son. Only see what handsome feet he has!"

"Yes," said the other, with a laugh, that sounded spiteful; "they are

just like the feet Princess Maybloom had before she washed them in the

Growing Well. Her father has sent far and wide throughout the whole

country searching for a doctor to make them small again, but nothing in

this world can do it except the water of the Fair Fountain, and none but

I and the nightingales know where it is."

"One would not care to let the like be known," said the first little

lady: "there would come such crowds of these great coarse creatures of

mankind, nobody would have peace for leagues round. But you will surely

send word to the sweet princess!--she was so kind to our birds and

butterflies, and danced so like one of ourselves!"

"Not I, indeed!" said the spiteful fairy. "Her old skinflint of a father

cut down the cedar which I loved best in the whole forest, and made a

chest of it to hold his money in; besides, I never liked the

princess--everybody praised her so. But come, we shall be too late for

the last dance."

When they were gone, Fairyfoot could sleep no more with astonishment. He

did not wonder at the fairies admiring his feet, because their own were

much the same; but it amazed him that Princess Maybloom's father should

be troubled at hers growing large. Moreover, he wished to see that same

princess and her country, since there were really other places in the

world than Stumpinghame.

When Robin Goodfellow came to take him home as usual he durst not let

him know that he had overheard anything; but never was the boy so

unwilling to get up as on that morning, and all day he was so weary that

in the afternoon Fairyfoot fell asleep, with his head on a clump of

rushes. It was seldom that any one thought of looking after him and the

sickly sheep; but it so happened that towards evening the old shepherd,

Fleecefold, thought he would see how things went on in the pastures. The

shepherd had a bad temper and a thick staff, and no sooner did he catch

sight of Fairyfoot sleeping, and his flock straying away, than shouting

all the ill names he could remember, in a voice which woke up the boy,

he ran after him as fast as his great feet would allow; while Fairyfoot,

seeing no other shelter from his fury, fled into the forest, and never

stopped nor stayed till he reached the banks of a little stream.

Thinking it might lead him to the fairies' dancing-ground, he followed

that stream for many an hour, but it wound away into the heart of the

forest, flowing through dells, falling over mossy rocks, and at last

leading Fairyfoot, when he was tired and the night had fallen, to a

grove of great rose-trees, with the moon shining on it as bright as day,

and thousands of nightingales singing in the branches. In the midst of

that grove was a clear spring, bordered with banks of lilies, and

Fairyfoot sat down by it to rest himself and listen. The singing was so

sweet he could have listened for ever, but as he sat the nightingales

left off their songs, and began to talk together in the silence of the

night.

"What boy is that," said one on a branch above him, "who sits so lonely

by the Fair Fountain? He cannot have come from Stumpinghame with such

small and handsome feet."

"No, I'll warrant you," said another, "he has come from the west

country. How in the world did he find the way?"

"How simple you are!" said a third nightingale. "What had he to do but

follow the ground-ivy which grows over height and hollow, bank and bush,

from the lowest gate of the king's kitchen garden to the root of this

rose-tree? He looks a wise boy, and I hope he will keep the secret, or

we shall have all the west country here, dabbling in our fountain, and

leaving us no rest to either talk or sing."

Fairyfoot sat in great astonishment at this discourse, but by and by,

when the talk ceased and the songs began, he thought it might be as well

for him to follow the ground-ivy, and see the Princess Maybloom, not to

speak of getting rid of Rough Ruddy, the sickly sheep, and the crusty

old shepherd. It was a long journey; but he went on, eating wild

berries by day, sleeping in the hollows of old trees by night, and never

losing sight of the ground-ivy, which led him over height and hollow,

bank and bush, out of the forest, and along a noble high road, with

fields and villages on every side, to a great city, and a low

old-fashioned gate of the king's kitchen-garden, which was thought too

mean for the scullions, and had not been opened for seven years.

There was no use knocking--the gate was overgrown with tall weeds and

moss; so, being an active boy, he climbed over, and walked through the

garden, till a white fawn came frisking by, and he heard a soft voice

saying sorrowfully--

"Come back, come back, my fawn! I cannot run and play with you now, my

feet have grown so heavy"; and looking round he saw the loveliest young

princess in the world, dressed in snow-white, and wearing a wreath of

roses on her golden hair; but walking slowly, as the great people did in

Stumpinghame, for her feet were as large as the best of them.

After her came six young ladies, dressed in white and walking slowly,

for they could not go before the princess; but Fairyfoot was amazed to

see that their feet were as small as his own. At once he guessed that

this must be the Princess Maybloom, and made her an humble bow, saying--

"Royal princess, I have heard of your trouble because your feet have

grown large; in my country that's all the fashion. For seven years past

I have been wondering what would make mine grow, to no purpose; but I

know of a certain fountain that will make yours smaller and finer than

ever they were, if the king, your father, gives you leave to come with

me, accompanied by two of your maids that are the least given to

talking, and the most prudent officer in all his household; for it would

grievously offend the fairies and the nightingales to make that fountain

known."

When the princess heard that, she danced for joy in spite of her large

feet, and she and her six maids brought Fairyfoot before the king and

queen, where they sat in their palace hall, with all the courtiers

paying their morning compliments. The lords were very much astonished to

see a ragged, bare-footed boy brought in among them, and the ladies

thought Princess Maybloom must have gone mad; but Fairyfoot, making an

humble reverence, told his message to the king and queen, and offered to

set out with the princess that very day. At first the king would not

believe that there could be any use in his offer, because so many great

physicians had failed to give any relief. The courtiers laughed

Fairyfoot to scorn, the pages wanted to turn him out for an impudent

impostor, and the prime minister said he ought to be put to death for

high treason.

Fairyfoot wished himself safe in the forest again, or even keeping the

sickly sheep; but the queen, being a prudent woman, said--

"I pray your majesty to notice what fine feet this boy has. There may be

some truth in his story. For the sake of our only daughter, I will

choose two maids who talk the least of all our train, and my

chamberlain, who is the most discreet officer in our household. Let them

go with the princess; who knows but our sorrow may be lessened?"

After some persuasion the king consented, though all his councillors

advised the contrary. So the two silent maids, the discreet

chamberlain, and her fawn, which would not stay behind, were sent with

Princess Maybloom, and they all set out after dinner. Fairyfoot had hard

work guiding them along the track of the ground-ivy. The maids and the

chamberlain did not like the brambles and rough roots of the

forest--they thought it hard to eat berries and sleep in hollow trees;

but the princess went on with good courage, and at last they reached the

grove of rose-trees, and the spring bordered with lilies.

The chamberlain washed--and though his hair had been grey, and his face

wrinkled, the young courtiers envied his beauty for years after. The

maids washed--and from that day they were esteemed the fairest in all

the palace. Lastly, the princess washed also--it could make her no

fairer, but the moment her feet touched the water they grew less, and

when she had washed and dried them three times, they were as small and

finely-shaped as Fairyfoot's own. There was great joy among them, but

the boy said sorrowfully--

"Oh! if there had been a well in the world to make my feet large, my

father and mother would not have cast me off, nor sent me to live among

the shepherds."

"Cheer up your heart," said the Princess Maybloom; "if you want large

feet, there is a well in this forest that will do it. Last summer time I

came with my father and his foresters to see a great cedar cut down, of

which he meant to make a money chest. While they were busy with the

cedar, I saw a bramble branch covered with berries. Some were ripe and

some were green, but it was the longest bramble that ever grew; for the

sake of the berries, I went on and on to its root, which grew hard by a

muddy-looking well, with banks of dark green moss, in the deepest part

of the forest. The day was warm and dry and my feet were sore with the

rough ground, so I took off my scarlet shoes and washed my feet in the

well; but as I washed they grew larger every minute, and nothing could

ever make them less again. I have seen the bramble this day; it is not

far off, and as you have shown me the Fair Fountain, I will show you the

Growing Well."

Up rose Fairyfoot and Princess Maybloom, and went together till they

found the bramble, and came to where its root grew, hard by the

muddy-looking well, with banks of dark green moss in the deepest dell of

the forest. Fairyfoot sat down to wash, but at that minute he heard a

sound of music, and knew it was the fairies going to their dancing

ground.

"If my feet grow large," said the boy to himself, "how shall I dance

with them?" So, rising quickly, he took the Princess Maybloom by the

hand. The fawn followed them; the maids and the chamberlain followed it,

and all followed the music through the forest. At last they came to the

flowery green. Robin Goodfellow welcomed the company for Fairyfoot's

sake, and gave every one a drink of the fairies' wine. So they danced

there from sunset till the grey morning, and nobody was tired; but

before the lark sang, Robin Goodfellow took them all safe home, as he

used to take Fairyfoot.

There was great joy that day in the palace because Princess Maybloom's

feet were made small again. The king gave Fairyfoot all manner of fine

clothes and rich jewels; and when they heard his wonderful story, he and

the queen asked him to live with them and be their son. In process of

time Fairyfoot and Princess Maybloom were married, and still live

happily. When they go to visit at Stumpinghame, they always wash their

feet in the Growing Well, lest the royal family might think them a

disgrace, but when they come back, they make haste to the Fair Fountain;

and the fairies and the nightingales are great friends to them, as well

as the maids and the chamberlain, because they have told nobody about

it, and there is peace and quiet yet in the grove of rose-trees.

200

The ill-fated Oscar Wilde (1856-1900) was born

in Ireland, was educated at Oxford, came into

great notoriety as the reputed leader of the

"aesthetic movement," was prominent in the

London literary world from 1885 to 1895, fell

under the obloquy of most of his countrymen,

and died in distressing circumstances in Paris.

In addition to some remarkable plays, poems,

and prose books, he wrote a number of unusual

stories especially fascinating to children,

which were collected under the title _The Happy

Prince, and Other Tales_. These stories were at

once recognized as classic in quality. While

they contain much implied criticism of certain

features of modern civilization, the whole tone

is so idealistic and the workmanship so fine

that they convey no strong note of bitterness

to the child. "The Happy Prince" suggests that

Wilde saw on the one hand "the white faces of

starving children looking out listlessly at the

black streets"; while on the other hand he saw

the Pyramids, marble angels sculptured on the

cathedral tower, and the gold-covered statue of

the Prince of the Palace of the Care-Free.

Wilde also suggests a remedy for the starvation

and wretchedness that exist, especially among

children, in most cities where great wealth is

displayed. The important thing in presenting

this story to children is to get the full

sympathetic response due to the sacrifice made

by the Happy Prince and the little swallow. So

much of the effect depends upon the wonderful

beauty of the language that teachers will, as a

rule, get better results from reading or

reciting than from any kind of oral paraphrase.

Another story in this same volume widely and

successfully used by teachers is the one called

"The Selfish Giant."

THE HAPPY PRINCE

OSCAR WILDE

High above the city, on a tall column, stood the statue of the Happy

Prince. He was gilded all over with thin leaves of fine gold, for eyes

he had two bright sapphires, and a large red ruby glowed on his

sword-hilt.

He was very much admired indeed. "He is as beautiful as a weathercock,"

remarked one of the Town Councillors who wished to gain a reputation for

having artistic tastes; "only not quite so useful," he added, fearing

lest people should think him unpractical, which he really was not.

"Why can't you be like the Happy Prince?" asked a sensible mother of her

little boy who was crying for the moon. "The Happy Prince never dreams

of crying for anything."

"I am glad there is some one in the world who is quite happy," muttered

a disappointed man as he gazed at the wonderful statue.

"He looks just like an angel," said the Charity Children as they came

out of the cathedral in their bright scarlet cloaks and their clean

white pinafores.

"How do you know?" said the Mathematical Master; "you have never seen

one."

"Ah! but we have, in our dreams," answered the children; and the

Mathematical Master frowned and looked very severe, for he did not

approve of children dreaming.

One night there flew over the city a Little Swallow. His friends had

gone away to Egypt six weeks before, but he had stayed behind, for he

was in love with the most beautiful Reed. He had met her early in the

spring as he was flying down the river after a big yellow moth, and had

been so attracted by her slender waist that he had stopped to talk to

her.

"Shall I love you?" said the Swallow, who liked to come to the point at

once, and the Reed made him a low bow. So he flew round and round her,

touching the water with his wings, and making silver ripples. This was

his courtship, and it lasted all through the summer.

"It is a ridiculous attachment," twittered the other Swallows; "she has

no money, and far too many relations"; and indeed the river was quite

full of Reeds. Then when the autumn came they all flew away.

After they had gone he felt lonely, and began to tire of his lady-love.

"She has no conversation," he said, "and I am afraid that she is a

coquette, for she is always flirting with the wind." And certainly,

whenever the wind blew, the Reed made the most graceful curtseys. "I

admit that she is domestic," he continued, "but I love traveling, and my

wife, consequently, should love traveling also."

"Will you come away with me?" he said finally to her; but the Reed shook

her head, she was so attached to her home.

"You have been trifling with me," he cried. "I am off to the Pyramids.

Good-bye!" and he flew away.

All day long he flew, and at night-time he arrived at the city. "Where

shall I put up?" he said; "I hope the town has made preparations."

Then he saw the statue on the tall column.

"I will put up there," he cried; "it is a fine position, with plenty of

fresh air." So he alighted just between the feet of the Happy Prince.

"I have a golden bedroom," he said softly to himself as he looked round,

and he prepared to go to sleep; but just as he was putting his head

under his wing a large drop of water fell on him. "What a curious

thing!" he cried; "there is not a single cloud in the sky, the stars are

quite clear and bright, and yet it is raining. The climate in the north

of Europe is really dreadful. The Reed used to like the rain, but that

was merely her selfishness."

Then another drop fell.

"What is the use of a statue if it cannot keep the rain off?" he said;

"I must look for a good chimney-pot," and he determined to fly away.

But before he had opened his wings, a third drop fell, and he looked up,

and saw--Ah! what did he see?

The eyes of the Happy Prince were filled with tears, and tears were

running down his golden cheeks. His face was so beautiful in the

moonlight that the little Swallow was filled with pity.

"Who are you?" he said.

"I am the Happy Prince."

"Why are you weeping then?" asked the Swallow; "you have quite drenched

me."

"When I was alive and had a human heart," answered the statue, "I did

not know what tears were, for I lived in the Palace of Sans-Souci, where

sorrow is not allowed to enter. In the daytime I played with my

companions in the garden, and in the evening I led the dance in the

Great Hall. Round the garden ran a very lofty wall, but I never cared to

ask what lay beyond it, everything about me was so beautiful. My

courtiers called me the Happy Prince, and happy indeed I was, if

pleasure be happiness. So I lived, and so I died. And now that I am dead

they have set me up here so high that I can see all the ugliness and all

the misery of my city, and though my heart is made of lead yet I cannot

choose but weep."

"What! is he not solid gold?" said the Swallow to himself. He was too

polite to make any personal remarks out loud.

"Far away," continued the statue in a low musical voice, "far away in a

little street there is a poor house. One of the windows is open, and

through it I can see a woman seated at a table. Her face is thin and

worn, and she has coarse, red hands, all pricked by the needle, for she

is a seamstress. She is embroidering passion-flowers on a satin gown for

the loveliest of the Queen's maids-of-honor to wear at the next

Court-ball. In a bed in the corner of the room her little boy is lying

ill. He has a fever, and is asking for oranges. His mother has nothing

to give him but river water, so he is crying. Swallow, Swallow, little

Swallow, will you not take her the ruby out of my sword-hilt? My feet

are fastened to this pedestal and I cannot move."

"I am waited for in Egypt," said the Swallow. "My friends are flying up

and down the Nile, and talking to the large lotus-flowers. Soon they

will go to sleep in the tomb of the great King. The King is there

himself in his painted coffin. He is wrapped in yellow linen, and

embalmed with spices. Round his neck is a chain of pale green jade, and

his hands are like withered leaves."

"Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow," said the Prince, "will you not stay

with me for one night, and be my messenger? The boy is so thirsty, and

the mother so sad."

"I don't think I like boys," answered the Swallow. "Last summer, when I

was staying on the river, there were two rude boys, the miller's sons,

who were always throwing stones at me. They never hit me, of course; we

swallows fly far too well for that, and besides, I come of a family

famous for its agility; but still, it was a mark of disrespect."

But the Happy Prince looked so sad that the little Swallow was sorry.

"It is very cold here," he said; "but I will stay with you for one

night, and be your messenger."

"Thank you, little Swallow," said the Prince.

So the Swallow picked out the great ruby from the Prince's sword, and

flew away with it in his beak over the roofs of the town.

He passed by the cathedral tower, where the white marble angels were

sculptured. He passed by the palace and heard the sound of dancing. A

beautiful girl came out on the balcony with her lover. "How wonderful

the stars are," he said to her, "and how wonderful is the power of

love!"

"I hope my dress will be ready in time for the State-ball," she

answered; "I have ordered passion-flowers to be embroidered on it; but

the seamstresses are so lazy."

He passed over the river, and saw the lanterns hanging to the masts of

the ships. He passed over the Ghetto, and saw the old Jews bargaining

with each other, and weighing out money in copper scales. At last he

came to the poor house and looked in. The boy was tossing feverishly on

his bed, and the mother had fallen asleep, she was so tired. In he

hopped, and laid the great ruby on the table beside the woman's thimble.

Then he flew gently round the bed, fanning the boy's forehead with his

wings. "How cool I feel," said the boy. "I must be getting better"; and

he sank into a delicious slumber.

Then the Swallow flew back to the Happy Prince, and told him what he had

done. "It is curious," he remarked, "but I feel quite warm now, although

it is so cold."

"That is because you have done a good action," said the Prince. And the

little Swallow began to think, and then he fell asleep. Thinking always

made him sleepy.

When day broke he flew down to the river and had a bath. "What a

remarkable phenomenon," said the Professor of Ornithology as he was

passing over the bridge. "A swallow in winter!" And he wrote a long

letter about it to the local newspaper. Every one quoted it, it was full

of so many words that they could not understand.

"To-night I go to Egypt," said the Swallow, and he was in high spirits

at the prospect. He visited all the public monuments, and sat a long

time on top of the church steeple. Wherever he went the Sparrows

chirruped, and said to each other, "What a distinguished stranger!" so

he enjoyed himself very much.

When the moon rose he flew back to the Happy Prince. "Have you any

commissions for Egypt?" he cried; "I am just starting."

"Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow," said the Prince, "will you not stay

with me one night longer?"

"I am waited for in Egypt," answered the Swallow. "To-morrow my friends

will fly up to the Second Cataract. The river-horse couches there among

the bulrushes, and on a great granite throne sits the God Memnon. All

night long he watches the stars, and when the morning star shines he

utters one cry of joy, and then he is silent. At noon the yellow lions

come down to the water's edge to drink. They have eyes like green

beryls, and their roar is louder than the roar of the cataract."

"Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow," said the Prince, "far away across

the city I see a young man in a garret. He is leaning over a desk

covered with papers, and in a tumbler by his side there is a bunch of

withered violets. His hair is brown and crisp, and his lips are red as a

pomegranate, and he has large and dreamy eyes. He is trying to finish a

play for the Director of the Theatre, but he is too cold to write any

more. There is no fire in the grate, and hunger has made him faint."

"I will wait with you one night longer," said the Swallow, who really

had a good heart. "Shall I take him another ruby?"

"Alas! I have no ruby now," said the Prince; "my eyes are all that I

have left. They are made of rare sapphires, which were brought out of

India a thousand years ago. Pluck out one of them and take it to him. He

will sell it to the jeweller, and buy food and firewood, and finish his

play."

"Dear Prince," said the Swallow, "I cannot do that"; and he began to

weep.

"Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow," said the Prince, "do as I command

you."

So the Swallow plucked out the Prince's eye, and flew away to the

student's garret. It was easy enough to get in, as there was a hole in

the roof. Through this he darted, and came into the room. The young man

had his head buried in his hands, so he did not hear the flutter of the

bird's wings, and when he looked up he found the beautiful sapphire

lying on the withered violets.

"I am beginning to be appreciated," he cried; "this is from some great

admirer. Now I can finish my play," and he looked quite happy.

The next day the Swallow flew down to the harbor. He sat on the mast of

a large vessel and watched the sailors hauling big chests out of the

hold with ropes. "Heave a-hoy!" they shouted as each chest came up. "I

am going to Egypt!" cried the Swallow, but nobody minded, and when the

moon rose he flew back to the Happy Prince.

"I am come to bid you good-bye," he cried.

"Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow," said the Prince, "will you not stay

with me one night longer?"

"It is winter," answered the Swallow, "and the chill snow will soon be

here. In Egypt the sun is warm on the green palm-trees, and the

crocodiles lie in the mud and look lazily about them. My companions are

building a nest in the Temple of Baalbec, and the pink and white doves

are watching them, and cooing to each other. Dear Prince, I must leave

you, but I will never forget you, and next spring I will bring you back

two beautiful jewels in place of those you have given away. The ruby

shall be redder than a red rose, and the sapphire shall be as blue as

the great sea."

"In the square below," said the Happy Prince, "there stands a little

match-girl. She has let her matches fall in the gutter, and they are all

spoiled. Her father will beat her if she does not bring home some money,

and she is crying. She has no shoes or stockings, and her little head is

bare. Pluck out my other eye, and give it to her, and her father will

not beat her."

"I will stay with you one night longer," said the Swallow, "but I cannot

pluck out your eye. You would be quite blind then."

"Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow," said the Prince, "do as I command

you."

So he plucked out the Prince's other eye, and darted down with it. He

swooped past the match-girl, and slipped the jewel into the palm of her

hand. "What a lovely bit of glass," cried the little girl; and she ran

home, laughing.

Then the Swallow came back to the Prince. "You are blind now," he said,

"so I will stay with you always."

"No, little Swallow," said the poor Prince, "you must go away to Egypt."

"I will stay with you always," said the Swallow, and he slept at the

Prince's feet.

All the next day he sat on the Prince's shoulder, and told him stories

of what he had seen in strange lands. He told him of the red ibises, who

stand in long rows on the banks of the Nile, and catch goldfish in their

beaks; of the Sphinx, who is as old as the world itself, and lives in

the desert, and knows everything; of the merchants, who walk slowly by

the side of their camels, and carry amber beads in their hands; of the

King of the Mountains of the Moon, who is as black as ebony, and

worships a large crystal; of the great green snake that sleeps in a

palm-tree, and has twenty priests to feed it with honey-cakes; and of

the pygmies who sail over a big lake on large flat leaves, and are

always at war with the butterflies.

"Dear little Swallow," said the Prince, "you tell me of marvelous

things, but more marvelous than anything is the suffering of men and of

women. There is no Mystery so great as Misery. Fly over my city, little

Swallow, and tell me what you see there."

So the Swallow flew over the great city, and saw the rich making merry

in their beautiful houses, while the beggars were sitting at the gates.

He flew into dark lanes, and saw the white faces of starving children

looking out listlessly at the black streets. Under the archway of a

bridge two little boys were lying in one another's arms to try to keep

themselves warm. "How hungry we are!" they said. "You must not lie

here," shouted the Watchman, and they wandered out into the rain.

Then he flew back and told the Prince what he had seen.

"I am covered with fine gold," said the Prince; "you must take it off,

leaf by leaf, and give it to my poor; the living always think that gold

can make them happy."

Leaf after leaf of the fine gold the Swallow picked off, till the Happy

Prince looked quite dull and grey. Leaf after leaf of the fine gold he

brought to the poor, and the children's faces grew rosier, and they

laughed and played games in the street. "We have bread now!" they cried.

Then the snow came, and after the snow came the frost. The streets

looked as if they were made of silver, they were so bright and

glistening; long icicles like crystal daggers hung down from the eaves

of the houses, everybody went about in furs, and the little boys wore

scarlet caps and skated on the ice.

The poor little Swallow grew colder and colder, but he would not leave

the Prince; he loved him too well. He picked up crumbs outside the

baker's door when the baker was not looking, and tried to keep himself

warm by flapping his wings.

But at last he knew that he was going to die. He had just strength to

fly up to the Prince's shoulder once more. "Good-bye, dear Prince!" he

murmured, "will you let me kiss your hand?"

"I am glad that you are going to Egypt at last, little Swallow," said

the Prince. "You have stayed too long here; but you must kiss me on the

lips, for I love you."

"It is not to Egypt that I am going," said the Swallow. "I am going to

the House of Death. Death is the brother of Sleep, is he not?"

And he kissed the Happy Prince on the lips, and fell down dead at his

feet.

At that moment a curious crack sounded inside the statue, as if

something had suddenly broken. The fact is that the leaden heart had

snapped right in two. It certainly was a dreadfully hard frost.

Early the next morning the Mayor was walking in the square below in

company with the Town Councillors. As they passed the column he looked

up at the statue: "Dear me! how shabby the Happy Prince looks!" he said.

"How shabby indeed!" cried the Town Councillors, who always agreed with

the Mayor; and they went up to look at it.

"The ruby has fallen out of his sword, his eyes are gone, and he is

golden no longer," said the Mayor; "in fact, he is little better than a

beggar!"

"Little better than a beggar," said the Town Councillors.

"And here is actually a dead bird at his feet!" continued the Mayor.

"We must really issue a proclamation that birds are not to be allowed

to die here." And the Town Clerk made a note of the suggestion.

So they pulled down the statue of the Happy Prince. "As he is no longer

beautiful he is no longer useful," said the Art Professor at the

University.

Then they melted the statue in a furnace, and the Mayor held a meeting

of the Corporation to decide what was to be done with the metal. "We

must have another statue, of course," he said, "and it shall be a statue

of myself."

"Of myself," said each of the Town Councillors, and they quarrelled.

When I last heard of them they were quarreling still.

"What a strange thing!" said the overseer of the workmen at the foundry.

"This broken lead heart will not melt in the furnace. We must throw it

away." So they threw it on a dustheap where the dead Swallow was also

lying.

"Bring me the two most precious things in the city," said God to one of

His Angels; and the Angel brought Him the leaden heart and the dead

bird.

"You have rightly chosen," said God, "for in my garden of Paradise this

little bird shall sing for evermore, and in my city of gold the Happy

Prince shall praise me."

201

Two stories of unusual interest and charm for

children are found in the collection of eleven

by Raymond M. Alden (1873--), _Why the Chimes

Rang_. One is the title story of the volume;

the other is "The Knights of the Silver

Shield." The latter follows by permission of

the publishers, The Bobbs-Merrill Co.,

Indianapolis. (Copyright, 1906, 1908.) It is of

striking dramatic interest and emphasizes a

much-needed quality of character, the

importance of a loyal performance of the

lowlier duties of life. The salvation of a

nation may depend upon the humble guardian of

the gate quite as much as upon those who are

engaged in the more spectacular struggle with

giants. Mr. Alden is a scholarly professor of

literature in Leland Stanford Jr. University,

and it may interest the reader to know that he

is the son of the author of the _Pansy Books_,

a type of religious or Sunday-school fiction

widely read throughout the country by a

generation or two of young people.

THE KNIGHTS OF THE SILVER SHIELD

RAYMOND MACDONALD ALDEN

There was once a splendid castle in a forest, with great stone walls and

a high gateway, and turrets that rose away above the tallest trees. The

forest was dark and dangerous, and many cruel giants lived in it; but in

the castle was a company of knights, who were kept there by the king of

the country, to help travelers who might be in the forest and to fight

with the giants whenever they could.

Each of these knights wore a beautiful suit of armor and carried a long

spear, while over his helmet there floated a great red plume that could

be seen a long way off by any one in distress. But the most wonderful

thing about the knights' armor was their shields. They were not like

those of other knights, but had been made by a great magician who had

lived in the castle many years before. They were made of silver, and

sometimes shone in the sunlight with dazzling brightness; but at other

times the surface of the shields would be clouded as though by a mist,

and one could not see his face reflected there as he could when they

shone brightly.

Now, when each young knight received his spurs and his armor, a new

shield was also given him from among those that the magician had made;

and when the shield was new its surface was always cloudy and dull. But

as the knight began to do service against the giants, or went on

expeditions to help poor travelers in the forest, his shield grew

brighter and brighter, so that he could see his face clearly reflected

in it. But if he proved to be a lazy or cowardly knight, and let the

giants get the better of him, or did not care what became of the

travelers, then the shield grew more and more cloudy, until the knight

became ashamed to carry it.

But this was not all. When any one of the knights fought a particularly

hard battle, and won the victory, or when he went on some hard errand

for the lord of the castle, and was successful, not only did his silver

shield grow brighter, but when one looked into the center of it he could

see something like a golden star shining in its very heart. This was the

greatest honor that a knight could achieve, and the other knights always

spoke of such a one as having "won his star." It was usually not till he

was pretty old and tried as a soldier that he could win it. At the time

when this story begins, the lord of the castle himself was the only one

of the knights whose shield bore the golden star.

There came a time when the worst of the giants in the forest gathered

themselves together to have a battle against the knights. They made a

camp in a dark hollow not far from the castle, and gathered all their

best warriors together, and all the knights made ready to fight them.

The windows of the castle were closed and barred; the air was full of

the noise of armor being made ready for use; and the knights were so

excited that they could scarcely rest or eat.

Now there was a young knight in the castle, named Sir Roland, who was

among those most eager for the battle. He was a splendid warrior, with

eyes that shone like stars whenever there was anything to do in the way

of knightly deeds. And although he was still quite young, his shield had

begun to shine enough to show plainly that he had done bravely in some

of his errands through the forest. This battle, he thought, would be the

great opportunity of his life. And on the morning of the day when they

were to go forth to it, and all the knights assembled in the great hall

of the castle to receive the commands of their leaders, Sir Roland hoped

that he would be put in the most dangerous place of all, so that he

could show what knightly stuff he was made of.

But when the lord of the castle came to him, as he went about in full

armor giving his commands, he said: "One brave knight must stay behind

and guard the gateway of the castle, and it is you, Sir Roland, being

one of the youngest, whom I have chosen for this."

At these words Sir Roland was so disappointed that he bit his lip and

closed his helmet over his face so that the other knights might not see

it. For a moment he felt as if he must reply angrily to the commander

and tell him that it was not right to leave so sturdy a knight behind

when he was eager to fight. But he struggled against this feeling and

went quietly to look after his duties at the gate. The gateway was high

and narrow, and was reached from outside by a high, narrow bridge that

crossed the moat, which surrounded the castle on every side. When an

enemy approached, the knight on guard rang a great bell just inside the

gate, and the bridge was drawn up against the castle wall, so that no

one could come across the moat. So the giants had long ago given up

trying to attack the castle itself.

To-day the battle was to be in the dark hollow in the forest, and it was

not likely that there would be anything to do at the castle gate, except

to watch it like a common doorkeeper. It was not strange that Sir Roland

thought some one else might have done this.

Presently all the other knights marched out in their flashing armor,

their red plumes waving over their heads, and their spears in their

hands. The lord of the castle stopped only to tell Sir Roland to keep

guard over the gate until they had all returned and to let no one enter.

Then they went into the shadows of the forest and were soon lost to

sight.

Sir Roland stood looking after them long after they had gone, thinking

how happy he would be if he were on the way to battle like them. But

after a little he put this out of his mind and tried to think of

pleasanter things. It was a long time before anything happened, or any

word came from the battle.

At last Sir Roland saw one of the knights come limping down the path to

the castle, and he went out on the bridge to meet him. Now this knight

was not a brave one, and he had been frightened away as soon as he was

wounded.

"I have been hurt," he said, "so that I can not fight any more. But I

could watch the gate for you, if you would like to go back in my place."

At first Sir Roland's heart leaped with joy at this, but then he

remembered what the commander had told him on going away, and he said:

"I should like to go, but a knight belongs where his commander has put

him. My place is here at the gate, and I can not open it even for you.

Your place is at the battle."

The knight was ashamed when he heard this, and he presently turned about

and went into the forest again.

So Sir Roland kept guard silently for another hour. Then there came an

old beggar woman down the path to the castle and asked Sir Roland if she

might come in and have some food. He told her that no one could enter

the castle that day, but that he would send a servant out to her with

food, and that she might sit and rest as long as she would.

"I have been past the hollow in the forest where the battle is going

on," said the old woman, while she was waiting for her food.

"And how do you think it is going?" asked Sir Roland.

"Badly for the knights, I am afraid," said the old woman. "The giants

are fighting as they have never fought before. I should think you had

better go and help your friends."

"I should like to, indeed," said Sir Roland. "But I am set to guard the

gateway of the castle and can not leave."

"One fresh knight would make a great difference when they are all weary

with fighting," said the old woman. "I should think that, while there

are no enemies about, you would be much more useful there."

"You may well think so," said Sir Roland, "and so may I; but it is

neither you nor I that is commander here."

"I suppose," said the old woman then, "that you are one of the kind of

knights who like to keep out of fighting. You are lucky to have so good

an excuse for staying at home." And she laughed a thin and taunting

laugh.

Then Sir Roland was very angry, and thought that if it were only a man

instead of a woman, he would show him whether he liked fighting or no.

But as it was a woman, he shut his lips and set his teeth hard together,

and as the servant came just then with the food he had sent for, he gave

it to the old woman quickly and shut the gate that she might not talk to

him any more.

It was not very long before he heard some one calling outside. Sir

Roland opened the gate and saw standing at the other end of the

drawbridge a little old man in a long black cloak. "Why are you knocking

here?" he said. "The castle is closed to-day."

"Are you Sir Roland?" said the little old man.

"Yes," said Sir Roland.

"Then you ought not to be staying here when your commander and his

knights are having so hard a struggle with the giants, and when you have

the chance to make of yourself the greatest knight in this kingdom.

Listen to me! I have brought you a magic sword."

As he said this, the old man drew from under his coat a wonderful sword

that flashed in the sunlight as if it were covered with diamonds. "This

is the sword of all swords," he said, "and it is for you, if you will

leave your idling here by the castle gate and carry it to the battle.

Nothing can stand before it. When you lift it the giants will fall back,

your master will be saved, and you will be crowned the victorious

knight--the one who will soon take his commander's place as lord of the

castle."

Now Sir Roland believed that it was a magician who was speaking to him,

for it certainly appeared to be a magic sword. It seemed so wonderful

that the sword should be brought to him, that he reached out his hand as

though he would take it, and the little old man came forward, as though

he would cross the drawbridge into the castle. But as he did so, it came

to Sir Roland's mind again that that bridge and the gateway had been

intrusted to him, and he called out "No!" to the old man, so that he

stopped where he was standing. But he waved the shining sword in the air

again, and said: "It is for you! Take it, and win the victory!"

Sir Roland was really afraid that if he looked any longer at the sword

or listened to any more words of the old man, he would not be able to

hold himself within the castle. For this reason he struck the great bell

at the gateway, which was the signal for the servants inside to pull in

the chains of the drawbridge, and instantly they began to pull, and the

drawbridge came up, so that the old man could not cross it to enter the

castle, nor Sir Roland to go out.

Then, as he looked across the moat, Sir Roland saw a wonderful thing.

The little old man threw off his black cloak, and as he did so he began

to grow bigger and bigger, until in a minute more he was a giant as tall

as any in the forest. At first Sir Roland could scarcely believe his

eyes. Then he realized that this must be one of their giant enemies, who

had changed himself to a little old man through some magic power, that

he might make his way into the castle while all the knights were away.

Sir Roland shuddered to think what might have happened if he had taken

the sword and left the gate unguarded. The giant shook his fist across

the moat that lay between them, and then, knowing that he could do

nothing more, he went angrily back into the forest.

Sir Roland now resolved not to open the gate again, and to pay no

attention to any other visitor. But it was not long before he heard a

sound that made him spring forward in joy. It was the bugle of the lord

of the castle, and there came sounding after it the bugles of many of

the knights that were with him, pealing so joyfully that Sir Roland was

sure they were safe and happy. As they came nearer, he could hear their

shouts of victory. So he gave the signal to let down the drawbridge

again, and went out to meet them. They were dusty and bloodstained and

weary, but they had won the battle with the giants; and it had been such

a great victory that there had never been a happier home-coming.

Sir Roland greeted them all as they passed in over the bridge, and then,

when he had closed the gate and fastened it, he followed them into the

great hall of the castle. The lord of the castle took his place on the

highest seat, with the other knights about him, and Sir Roland came

forward with the key of the gate, to give his account of what he had

done in the place to which the commander had appointed him. The lord of

the castle bowed to him as a sign for him to begin, but just as he

opened his mouth to speak, one of the knights cried out:

"The shield! the shield! Sir Roland's shield!"

Every one turned and looked at the shield which Sir Roland carried on

his left arm. He himself could see only the top of it and did not know

what they could mean. But what they saw was the golden star of

knighthood, shining brightly from the center of Sir Roland's shield.

There had never been such amazement in the castle before.

Sir Roland knelt before the lord of the castle to receive his commands.

He still did not know why every one was looking at him so excitedly, and

wondered if he had in some way done wrong.

"Speak, Sir Knight," said the commander, as soon as he could find his

voice after his surprise, "and tell us all that has happened to-day at

the castle. Have you been attacked? Have any giants come hither? Did you

fight them alone?"

"No, my Lord," said Sir Roland. "Only one giant has been here, and he

went away silently when he found he could not enter."

Then he told all that had happened through the day.

When he had finished, the knights all looked at one another, but no one

spoke a word. Then they looked again at Sir Roland's shield, to make

sure that their eyes had not deceived them, and there the golden star

was still shining.

After a little silence the lord of the castle spoke.

"Men make mistakes," he said, "but our silver shields are never

mistaken. Sir Roland has fought and won the hardest battle of all

to-day."

Then the others all rose and saluted Sir Roland, who was the youngest

knight that ever carried the golden star.

202

Jean Ingelow (1820-1897) was an English poet,

novelist, and writer of stories for children,

who lived in the fen district of Lincolnshire.

Her most noted poem deals with a terrible

catastrophe that happened there more than three

centuries ago. It is called "The High Tide on

the Coast of Lincolnshire." Many reading books

for the third or fourth grade contain her

dainty and melodious "Seven Times One," in

which a little girl expresses the joy and sense

of power felt on reaching a seventh birthday.

Of her children's books, the favorite is _Mopsa

the Fairy_, which some one has called a

"delightful succession of breezy

impossibilities." Her shorter stories for

children are collected under the title _Stories

Told to a Child_ (two series), from which "The

Prince's Dream" is taken. It is somewhat old

fashioned in method and style, reminding one of

the stories of the days of Addison and Steele.

Its seriousness is in striking contrast with

the more flippant note in much modern writing

for children, and it is sure to suggest some

questions on the dangers and advantages of

great possessions in their effects on labor,

liberty, and human happiness in general.

However, the moral will take care of itself,

and the attention should rest on the means used

by the old man to teach the young prince the

things he is shut out from learning by

experience. The children will easily see that

it is an anticipation of the moving-picture

method. Some other good stories in the

collection mentioned are "I Have a Right," "The

Fairy Who Judged Her Neighbors," and "Anselmo."

THE PRINCE'S DREAM

JEAN INGELOW

If we may credit the fable, there is a tower in the midst of a great

Asiatic plain, wherein is confined a prince who was placed there in his

earliest infancy, with many slaves and attendants, and all the luxuries

that are compatible with imprisonment.

Whether he was brought there from some motive of state, whether to

conceal him from enemies, or to deprive him of rights, has not

transpired; but it is certain that up to the date of this little history

he had never set his foot outside the walls of that high tower, and that

of the vast world without he knew only the green plains which surrounded

it; the flocks and the birds of that region were all his experience of

living creatures, and all the men he saw outside were shepherds.

And yet he was not utterly deprived of change, for sometimes one of his

attendants would be ordered away, and his place would be supplied by a

new one. This fresh companion the prince would never weary of

questioning, and letting him talk of cities, of ships, of forests, of

merchandise, of kings; but though in turns they all tried to satisfy his

curiosity, they could not succeed in conveying very distinct notions to

his mind; partly because there was nothing in the tower to which they

could compare the external world, partly because, having chiefly lived

lives of seclusion and indolence in Eastern palaces, they knew it only

by hearsay themselves.

At length, one day, a venerable man of a noble presence was brought to

the tower, with soldiers to guard him and slaves to attend him. The

prince was glad of his presence, though at first he seldom opened his

lips, and it was manifest that confinement made him miserable. With

restless feet he would wander from window to window of the stone tower,

and mount from story to story; but mount as high as he would there was

still nothing to be seen but the vast unvarying plain, clothed with

scanty grass, and flooded with the glaring sunshine; flocks and herds,

and shepherds, moved across it sometimes, but nothing else, not even a

shadow, for there was no cloud in the sky to cast one.

The old man, however, always treated the prince with respect, and

answered his questions with a great deal of patience, till at length he

found a pleasure in satisfying his curiosity, which so much pleased the

young prisoner, that, as a great condescension, he invited him to come

out on the roof of the tower and drink sherbet with him in the cool of

the evening, and tell him of the country beyond the desert, and what

seas are like, and mountains, and towns.

"I have learnt much from my attendants, and know this world pretty well

by hearsay," said the prince, as they reclined on the rich carpet which

was spread on the roof.

The old man smiled, but did not answer; perhaps because he did not care

to undeceive his young companion, perhaps because so many slaves were

present, some of whom were serving them with fruit, and others burning

rich odors on a little chafing-dish that stood between them.

"But there are some words to which I never could attach any particular

meaning," proceeded the prince, as the slaves began to retire, "and

three in particular that my attendants cannot satisfy me upon, or are

reluctant to do so."

"What words are those, my prince?" asked the old man. The prince turned

on his elbow to be sure that the last slave had descended the tower

stairs, then replied--

"O man of much knowledge, the words are these--Labor, and Liberty, and

Gold."

"Prince," said the old man, "I do not wonder that it has been hard to

make thee understand the first, the nature of it, and the cause why most

men are born to it; as for the second, it would be treason for thee and

me to do more than whisper it here, and sigh for it when none are

listening; but the third need hardly puzzle thee, thy hookah is bright

with it; all thy jewels are set in it; gold is inlaid in the ivory of

thy bath; thy cup and thy dish are of gold, and golden threads are

wrought into thy raiment."

"That is true," replied the prince, "and if I had not seen and handled

this gold, perhaps I might not find its merits so hard to understand;

but I possess it in abundance, and it does not feed me, nor make music

for me, nor fan me when the sun is hot, nor cause me to sleep when I am

weary; therefore when my slaves have told me how merchants go out and

brave the perilous wind and sea, and live in the unstable ships, and run

risks from shipwreck and pirates, and when, having asked them why they

have done this, they have answered, 'For gold,' I have found it hard to

believe them; and when they have told me how men have lied, and robbed,

and deceived; how they have murdered one another, and leagued together

to depose kings, to oppress provinces, and all for gold; then I have

said to myself, either my slaves have combined to make me believe that

which is not, or this gold must be very different from the yellow stuff

that this coin is made of, this coin which is of no use but to have a

hole pierced through it and hang to my girdle, that it may tinkle when I

walk."

"Notwithstanding," said the old man, "nothing can be done without gold;

for look you, prince, it is better than bread, and fruit, and music, for

it can buy them all, since men love it, and have agreed to exchange it

for whatever they may need."

"How so?" asked the prince.

"If a man has many loaves he cannot eat them all," answered the old man;

"therefore he goes to his neighbor and says, 'I have bread and thou

hast a coin of gold--let us change'; so he receives the gold and goes to

another man, saying, 'Thou hast two houses and I have none; lend me one

of thy houses to live in, and I will give thee my gold'; thus again they

change, and he that has the gold says, 'I have food enough and goods

enough, but I want a wife, I will go to the merchant and get a marriage

gift for her father, and for it I will give him this gold.'"

"It is well," said the prince; "but in time of drought, if there is no

bread in a city, can they make it of gold?"

"Not so," answered the old man, "but they must send their gold to a city

where there is food, and bring that back instead of it."

"But if there was a famine all over the world," asked the prince, "what

would they do then?"

"Why then, and only then," said the old man, "they must starve, and the

gold would be nought, for it can only be changed for that which _is_; it

cannot make that which is not."

"And where do they get gold?" asked the prince; "is it the precious

fruit of some rare tree, or have they whereby they can draw it down from

the sky at sunset?"

"Some of it," said the old man, "they dig out of the ground."

Then he told the prince of ancient rivers running through terrible

deserts, whose sands glitter, with golden grains and are yellow in the

fierce heat of the sun, and of dreary mines where the Indian slaves work

in gangs tied together, never seeing the light of day; and lastly (for

he was a man of much knowledge, and had traveled far), he told him of

the valley of the Sacramento in the New World, and of those mountains

where the people of Europe send their criminals, and where now their

free men pour forth to gather gold, and dig for it as hard as if for

life; sitting up by it at night lest any should take it from them,

giving up houses and country, and wife and children, for the sake of a

few feet of mud, whence they dig clay that glitters as they wash it; and

how they sift it and rock it as patiently as if it were their own

children in the cradle, and afterwards carry it in their bosoms, and

forego on account of it safety and rest.

"But, prince," he proceeded, observing that the young man was absorbed

in his narrative, "if you would pass your word to me never to betray me,

I would procure for you a sight of the external world, and in a trance

you should see those places where gold is dug, and traverse those

regions forbidden to your mortal footsteps."

Upon this, the prince threw himself at the old man's feet, and promised

heartily to observe the secrecy required, and entreated that, for

however short time, he might be suffered to see this wonderful world.

Then, if we may credit the story, the old man drew nearer to the

chafing-dish which stood between them, and having fanned the dying

embers in it, cast upon them a certain powder and some herbs, from

whence as they burnt a peculiar smoke arose. As their vapors spread, he

desired the prince to draw near and inhale them, and then (says the

fable) when he should sleep he should find himself, in his dream, at

whatever place he might desire, with this strange advantage, that he

should see things in their truth and reality as well as in their outward

shows.

So the prince, not without some fear, prepared to obey; but first he

drank his sherbet, and handed over the golden cup to the old man by way

of recompense; then he reclined beside the chafing-dish and inhaled the

heavy perfume till he became overpowered with sleep, and sank down upon

the carpet in a dream.

The prince knew not where he was, but a green country was floating

before him, and he found himself standing in a marshy valley, where a

few wretched cottages were scattered here and there with no means of

communication. There was a river, but it had overflowed its banks and

made the central land impassable, the fences had been broken down by it,

and the fields of corn laid low; a few wretched peasants were wandering

about there; they looked half clad and half starved. "A miserable valley

indeed!" exclaimed the prince; but as he said it a man came down from

the hills with a great bag of gold in his hand.

"This valley is mine," said he to the people; "I have bought it for

gold. Now make banks that the river may not overflow, and I will give

you gold; also make fences and plant fields, and cover in the roofs of

your houses, and buy yourselves richer clothing." So the people did so,

and as the gold got lower in the bag the valley grew fairer and greener,

till the prince exclaimed, "O gold, I see your value now! O wonderful,

beneficent gold!"

But presently the valley melted away like a mist, and the prince saw an

army besieging a city; he heard a general haranguing his soldiers to

urge them on, and the soldiers shouting and battering the walls; but

shortly, when the city was well-nigh taken, he saw some men secretly

throwing gold among the soldiers, so much of it that they threw down

their arms to pick it up, and said that the walls were so strong that

they could not throw them down. "O powerful gold!" thought the prince;

"thou art stronger than the city walls!"

After that it seemed to himself that he was walking about in a desert

country, and in his dream he thought, "Now I know what labor is, for I

have seen it, and its benefits; and I know what liberty is, for I have

tasted it; I can wander where I will, and no man questions me; but gold

is more strange to me than ever, for I have seen it buy both liberty and

labor." Shortly after this he saw a great crowd digging upon a barren

hill, and when he drew near he understood that he had reached the summit

of his wishes, and that he was to see the place where the gold came

from.

He came up and stood a long time watching the people as they toiled

ready to faint in the sun, so great was the labor of digging the gold.

He saw who had much and could not trust any one to help them to carry

it, binding it in bundles over their shoulders, and bending and groaning

under its weight; he saw others hide it in the ground, and watch the

place clothed in rags, that none might suspect that they were rich; but

some, on the contrary, who had dug up an unusual quantity, he saw

dancing and singing, and vaunting their success, till robbers waylaid

them when they slept, and rifled their bundles and carried their golden

sand away.

"All these men are mad," thought the prince, "and this pernicious gold

has made them so."

After this, as he wandered here and there, he saw groups of people

smelting the gold under the shadow of the trees, and he observed that a

dancing, quivering vapor rose up from it, which dazzled their eyes, and

distorted everything that they looked at; arraying it also in different

colors from the true one. He observed that this vapor from the gold

caused all things to rock and reel before the eyes of those who looked

through it, and also, by some strange affinity, it drew their hearts

towards those that carried much gold on their persons, so that they

called them good and beautiful; it also caused them to see darkness and

dullness in the faces of those who carried none. "This," thought the

prince, "is very strange"; but not being able to explain it, he went

still further, and there he saw more people. Each of these had adorned

himself with a broad golden girdle, and was sitting in the shade, while

other men waited on them.

"What ails these people?" he inquired of one who was looking on, for he

observed a peculiar air of weariness and dullness in their faces. He was

answered that the girdles were very tight and heavy, and being bound

over the regions of the heart, were supposed to impede its action, and

prevent it from beating high, and also to chill the wearer, as being of

opaque material, the warm sunshine of the earth could not get through to

warm him.

"Why, then, do they not break them asunder," exclaimed the prince, "and

fling them away?"

"Break them asunder!" cried the man; "why what a madman you must be;

they are made of the purest gold!"

"Forgive my ignorance," replied the prince; "I am a stranger."

So he walked on, for feelings of delicacy prevented him from gazing any

longer at the men with the golden girdles; but as he went he pondered on

the misery he had seen, and thought to himself that this golden sand did

more mischief than all the poisons of the apothecary; for it dazzled the

eyes of some, it strained the hearts of others, it bowed down the heads

of many to the earth with its weight; it was a sore labor to gather it,

and when it was gathered, the robber might carry it away; it would be a

good thing, he thought, if there were none of it.

After this he came to a place where were sitting some aged widows and

some orphan children of the gold-diggers, who were helpless and

destitute; they were weeping and bemoaning themselves, but stopped at

the approach of a man, whose appearance attracted the prince, for he had

a very great bundle of gold on his back, and yet it did not bow him down

at all; his apparel was rich but he had no girdle on, and his face was

anything but sad.

"Sir," said the prince to him, "you have a great burden; you are

fortunate to be able to stand under it."

"I could not do so," he replied, "only that as I go on I keep lightening

it"; and as he passed each of the widows, he threw gold to her, and

stooping down, hid pieces of it in the bosoms of the children.

"You have no girdle," said the prince.

"I once had one," answered the gold gatherer; "but it was so tight over

my breast that my very heart grew cold under it, and almost ceased to

beat. Having a great quantity of gold on my back, I felt almost at the

last gasp; so I threw off my girdle and being on the bank of a river,

which I knew not how to cross, I was about to fling it in, I was so

vexed! 'But no,' thought I, 'there are many people waiting here to cross

besides myself. I will make my girdle into a bridge, and we will cross

over on it.'"

"Turn your girdle into a bridge!" exclaimed the prince doubtfully, for

he did not quite understand.

The man explained himself.

"And then, sir, after that," he continued, "I turned one half of my

burden into bread, and gave it to these poor people. Since then I have

not been oppressed by its weight, however heavy it may have been; for

few men have a heavier one. In fact, I gather more from day to day."

As the man kept speaking, he scattered his gold right and left with a

cheerful countenance, and the prince was about to reply, when suddenly a

great trembling under his feet made him fall to the ground. The refining

fires of the gold gatherers sprang up into flames, and then went out;

night fell over everything on the earth, and nothing was visible in the

sky but the stars of the southern cross, which were glittering above

him.

"It is past midnight," thought the prince, "for the stars of the cross

begin to bend."

He raised himself upon his elbow, and tried to pierce the darkness, but

could not. At length a slender blue flame darted out, as from ashes in a

chafing-dish, and by the light of it he saw the strange pattern of his

carpet and the cushions lying about. He did not recognise them at first,

but presently he knew that he was lying in his usual place, at the top

of his tower.

"Wake up, prince," said the old man.

The prince sat up and sighed, and the old man inquired what he had seen.

"O man of much learning!" answered the prince, "I have seen that this is

a wonderful world; I have seen the value of labor, and I know the uses

of it; I have tasted the sweetness of liberty, and am grateful, though

it was but in a dream; but as for that other word that was so great a

mystery to me, I only know this, that it must remain a mystery forever,

since I am fain to believe that all men are bent on getting it; though,

once gotten, it causeth them endless disquietude, only second to their

discomfort that are without it. I am fain to believe that they can

procure with it whatever they most desire, and yet that it cankers their

hearts and dazzles their eyes; that it is their nature and their duty to

gather it; and yet that, when once gathered, the best thing they can do

is to scatter it!"

Alas! the prince visited this wonderful world no more; for the next

morning, when he awoke, the old man was gone. He had taken with him the

golden cup which the prince had given him. And the sentinel was also

gone, none knew whither. Perhaps the old man had turned his golden cup

into a golden key.

203

Few modern writers have given their readers

more genuine delight than Frank R. Stockton

(1834-1902). The most absurd and illogical

situations and characters are presented with an

air of such quiet sincerity that one refuses to

question the reality of it all. _Rudder Grange_

established his reputation in 1879, and was

followed by a long list of stories of

delightfully impossible events. For several

years Stockton was one of the editors of _St.

Nicholas_, and some of his stories for

children, of first quality in both form and

content, deserve to be better known than they

are. Five of the best of them for school use

have been brought together in a little volume

called _Fanciful Tales_. One of these, "Old

Pipes and the Dryad," is given here by

permission of the publishers, Charles

Scribner's Sons, New York. (Copyright, 1894.)

This story is based upon the old mythical

belief that the trees are inhabited by guardian

deities known as dryads, or hamadryads. To

injure a tree meant to injure its guardian

spirit and was almost certain to insure

disaster for the guilty person. On the other

hand, to protect a tree would bring some token

of appreciation from the dryad. A good

introduction to the story would be the telling

of one or two of these tree myths as found in

Gayley's _Classic Myths_ or Bulfinch's _Age of

Fable_. A fine literary version of one of them

is in Lowell's "Rhoecus." But the beautiful and

kindly helpfulness of Old Pipes will carry its

own message whether one knows any mythology or

not.

OLD PIPES AND THE DRYAD

FRANK R. STOCKTON

A Mountain brook ran through a little village. Over the brook there was

a narrow bridge, and from the bridge a foot-path led out from the

village and up the hill-side, to the cottage of Old Pipes and his

mother.

For many, many years Old Pipes had been employed by the villagers to

pipe the cattle down from the hills. Every afternoon, an hour before

sunset, he would sit on a rock in front of his cottage and play on his

pipes. Then all the flocks and herds that were grazing on the mountains

would hear him, wherever they might happen to be, and would come down to

the village--the cows by the easiest paths, the sheep by those not quite

so easy, and the goats by the steep and rocky ways that were hardest of

all.

But now, for a year or more, Old Pipes had not piped the cattle home. It

is true that every afternoon he sat upon the rock and played upon his

pipes; but the cattle did not hear him. He had grown old, and his breath

was feeble. The echoes of his cheerful notes, which used to come from

the rocky hill on the other side of the valley, were heard no more; and

twenty yards from Old Pipes one could scarcely tell what tune he was

playing. He had become somewhat deaf, and did not know that the sound of

his pipes was so thin and weak, and that the cattle did not hear him.

The cows, the sheep, and the goats came down every afternoon as before;

but this was because two boys and a girl were sent up after them. The

villagers did not wish the good old man to know that his piping was no

longer of any use; so they paid him his little salary every month, and

said nothing about the two boys and the girl.

Old Pipes's mother was, of course, a great deal older than he was, and

was as deaf as a gate--post, latch, hinges, and all--and she never knew

that the sound of her son's pipe did not spread over all the

mountain-side and echo back strong and clear from the opposite hills.

She was very fond of Old Pipes, and proud of his piping; and as he was

so much younger than she was, she never thought of him as being very

old. She cooked for him, and made his bed, and mended his clothes; and

they lived very comfortably on his little salary.

One afternoon, at the end of the month, when Old Pipes had finished his

piping, he took his stout staff and went down the hill to the village to

receive the money for his month's work. The path seemed a great deal

steeper and more difficult than it used to be; and Old Pipes thought

that it must have been washed by the rains and greatly damaged. He

remembered it as a path that was quite easy to traverse either up or

down. But Old Pipes had been a very active man, and as his mother was so

much older than he was, he never thought of himself as aged and infirm.

When the Chief Villager had paid him, and he had talked a little with

some of his friends, Old Pipes started to go home. But when he had

crossed the bridge over the brook, and gone a short distance up the

hill-side, he became very tired, and sat down upon a stone. He had not

been sitting there half a minute, when along came two boys and a girl.

"Children," said Old Pipes, "I'm very tired to-night, and I don't

believe I can climb up this steep path to my home. I think I shall have

to ask you to help me."

"We will do that," said the boys and the girl, quite cheerfully; and one

boy took him by the right hand and the other by the left, while the girl

pushed him in the back. In this way he went up the hill quite easily,

and soon reached his cottage door. Old Pipes gave each of the three

children a copper coin, and then they sat down for a few minutes' rest

before starting back to the village.

"I'm sorry that I tired you so much," said Old Pipes.

"Oh, that would not have tired us," said one of the boys, "if we had not

been so far to-day after the cows, the sheep, and the goats. They

rambled high up on the mountain, and we never before had such a time in

finding them."

"Had to go after the cows, the sheep, and the goats!" exclaimed Old

Pipes. "What do you mean by that?"

The girl, who stood behind the old man, shook her head, put her hand on

her mouth, and made all sorts of signs to the boy to stop talking on

this subject; but he did not notice her, and promptly answered Old

Pipes.

"Why, you see, good sir," said he, "that as the cattle can't hear your

pipes now, somebody has to go after them every evening to drive them

down from the mountain, and the Chief Villager has hired us three to do

it. Generally it is not very hard work, but to-night the cattle had

wandered far."

"How long have you been doing this?" asked the old man.

The girl shook her head and clapped her hand on her mouth as before, but

the boy went on.

"I think it is about a year now," he said, "since the people first felt

sure that the cattle could not hear your pipes; and from that time we've

been driving them down. But we are rested now, and will go home.

Good-night, sir."

The three children then went down the hill, the girl scolding the boy

all the way home. Old Pipes stood silent a few moments, and then he went

into his cottage.

"Mother," he shouted, "did you hear what those children said?"

"Children!" exclaimed the old woman; "I did not hear them. I did not

know there were any children here."

Then Old Pipes told his mother--shouting very loudly to make her

hear--how the two boys and the girl had helped him up the hill, and what

he had heard about his piping and the cattle.

"They can't hear you?" cried his mother. "Why, what's the matter with

the cattle?"

"Ah, me!" said Old Pipes; "I don't believe there's anything the matter

with the cattle. It must be with me and my pipes that there is something

the matter. But one thing is certain: if I do not earn the wages the

Chief Villager pays me, I shall not take them. I shall go straight down

to the village and give back the money I received to-day."

"Nonsense!" cried his mother. "I'm sure you've piped as well as you

could, and no more can be expected. And what are we to do without the

money?"

"I don't know," said Old Pipes; "but I'm going down to the village to

pay it back."

The sun had now set; but the moon was shining very brightly on the

hill-side, and Old Pipes could see his way very well. He did not take

the same path by which he had gone before, but followed another, which

led among the trees upon the hill-side, and, though longer, was not so

steep.

When he had gone about half-way, the old man sat down to rest, leaning

his back against a great oak tree. As he did so, he heard a sound like

knocking inside the tree, and then a voice said:

"Let me out! let me out!"

Old Pipes instantly forgot that he was tired, and sprang to his feet.

"This must be a Dryad tree!" he exclaimed. "If it is, I'll let her out."

Old Pipes had never, to his knowledge, seen a Dryad tree, but he knew

there were such trees on the hill-sides and the mountains, and that

Dryads lived in them. He knew, too, that in the summer time, on those

days when the moon rose before the sun went down, a Dryad could come out

of her tree if any one could find the key which locked her in, and turn

it. Old Pipes closely examined the trunk of the tree, which stood in the

full moonlight. "If I see that key," he said, "I shall surely turn it."

Before long he found a piece of bark standing out from the tree, which

looked to him very much like the handle of a key. He took hold of it,

and found he could turn it quite around. As he did so, a large part of

the side of the tree was pushed open, and a beautiful Dryad stepped

quickly out.

For a moment she stood motionless, gazing on the scene before her--the

tranquil valley, the hills, the forest, and the mountain-side, all lying

in the soft clear light of the moon. "Oh, lovely! lovely!" she

exclaimed. "How long it is since I have seen anything like this!" And

then, turning to Old Pipes, she said: "How good of you to let me out! I

am so happy, and so thankful, that I must kiss you, you dear old man!"

And she threw her arms around the neck of Old Pipes, and kissed him on

both cheeks.

"You don't know," she then went on to say, "how doleful it is to be shut

up so long in a tree. I don't mind it in the winter, for then I am glad

to be sheltered, but in summer it is a rueful thing not to be able to

see all the beauties of the world. And it's ever so long since I've been

let out. People so seldom come this way; and when they do come at the

right time, they either don't hear me or they are frightened and run

away. But you, you dear old man, you were not frightened, and you looked

and looked for the key, and you let me out; and now I shall not have to

go back till winter has come, and the air grows cold. Oh, it is

glorious! What can I do for you, to show you how grateful I am?"

"I am very glad," said Old Pipes, "that I let you out, since I see that

it makes you so happy; but I must admit that I tried to find the key

because I had a great desire to see a Dryad. But, if you wish to do

something for me, you can, if you happen to be going down toward the

village."

"To the village!" exclaimed the Dryad. "I will go anywhere for you, my

kind old benefactor."

"Well, then," said Old Pipes, "I wish you would take this little bag of

money to the Chief Villager and tell him that Old Pipes cannot receive

pay for the services which he does not perform. It is now more than a

year that I have not been able to make the cattle hear me, when I piped

to call them home. I did not know this until to-night; but now that I

know it, I cannot keep the money, and so I send it back." And, handing

the little bag to the Dryad, he bade her good-night, and turned toward

his cottage.

"Good-night," said the Dryad. "And I thank you over, and over, and over

again, you good old man!"

Old Pipes walked toward his home, very glad to be saved the fatigue of

going all the way down to the village and back again. "To be sure," he

said to himself, "this path does not seem at all steep, and I can walk

along it very easily; but it would have tired me dreadfully to come up

all the way from the village, especially as I could not have expected

those children to help me again." When he reached home his mother was

surprised to see him returning so soon.

"What!" she exclaimed; "have you already come back? What did the Chief

Villager say? Did he take the money?"

Old Pipes was just about to tell her that he had sent the money to the

village by a Dryad, when he suddenly reflected that his mother would be

sure to disapprove such a proceeding, and so he merely said he had sent

it by a person whom he had met.

"And how do you know that the person will ever take it to the Chief

Villager?" cried his mother. "You will lose it, and the villagers will

never get it. Oh, Pipes! Pipes! when will you be old enough to have

ordinary common-sense?"

Old Pipes considered that, as he was already seventy years of age, he

could scarcely expect to grow any wiser; but he made no remark on this

subject, and, saying that he doubted not that the money would go safely

to its destination, he sat down to his supper. His mother scolded him

roundly, but he did not mind it; and after supper he went out and sat on

a rustic chair in front of the cottage to look at the moonlit village,

and to wonder whether or not the Chief Villager really received the

money. While he was doing these two things, he went fast asleep.

When Old Pipes left the Dryad, she did not go down to the village with

the little bag of money. She held it in her hand, and thought about what

she had heard. "This is a good and honest old man," she said; "and it is

a shame that he should lose this money. He looked as if he needed it,

and I don't believe the people in the village will take it from one who

has served them so long. Often, when in my tree, have I heard the sweet

notes of his pipes. I am going to take the money back to him." She did

not start immediately, because there were so many beautiful things to

look at; but after awhile she went up to the cottage, and, finding Old

Pipes asleep in his chair, she slipped the little bag into his

coat-pocket, and silently sped away.

The next day Old Pipes told his mother that he would go up the mountain

and cut some wood. He had a right to get wood from the mountain, but for

a long time he had been content to pick up the dead branches which lay

about his cottage. To-day, however, he felt so strong and vigorous that

he thought he would go and cut some fuel that would be better than

this. He worked all the morning, and when he came back he did not feel

at all tired, and he had a very good appetite for his dinner.

Now, Old Pipes knew a good deal about Dryads; but there was one thing

which, although he had heard, he had forgotten. This was, that a kiss

from a Dryad made a person ten years younger.

The people of the village knew this, and they were very careful not to

let any child of ten years or younger go into the woods where the Dryads

were supposed to be; for, if they should chance to be kissed by one of

these tree-nymphs, they would be set back so far that they would cease

to exist.

A story was told in the village that a very bad boy of eleven once ran

away into the woods, and had an adventure of this kind; and when his

mother found him he was a little baby of one year old. Taking advantage

of her opportunity, she brought him up more carefully than she had done

before, and he grew to be a very good boy indeed.

Now Old Pipes had been kissed twice by the Dryad, once on each cheek,

and he therefore felt as vigorous and active as when he was a hale man

of fifty. His mother noticed how much work he was doing, and told him

that he need not try in that way to make up for the loss of his piping

wages; for he would only tire himself out, and get sick. But her son

answered that he had not felt so well for years, and that he was quite

able to work.

In the course of the afternoon, Old Pipes, for the first time that day,

put his hand in his coat-pocket, and there, to his amazement, he found

the little bag of money. "Well, well!" he exclaimed, "I am stupid,

indeed! I really thought that I had seen a Dryad; but when I sat down by

that big oak tree I must have gone to sleep and dreamed it all; and then

I came home, thinking I had given the money to a Dryad, when it was in

my pocket all the time. But the Chief Villager shall have the money. I

shall not take it to him to-day, but to-morrow I wish to go to the

village to see some of my old friends; and then I shall give up the

money."

Toward the close of the afternoon, Old Pipes, as had been his custom for

so many years, took his pipes from the shelf on which they lay, and went

out to the rock in front of the cottage.

"What are you going to do?" cried his mother. "If you will not consent

to be paid, why do you pipe?"

"I am going to pipe for my own pleasure," said her son. "I am used to

it, and I do not wish to give it up. It does not matter now whether the

cattle hear me or not, and I am sure that my piping will injure no one."

When the good man began to play upon his favorite instrument he was

astonished at the sound that came from it. The beautiful notes of the

pipes sounded clear and strong down into the valley, and spread over the

hills, and up the sides of the mountain beyond, while, after a little

interval, an echo came back from the rocky hill on the other side of the

valley.

"Ha! ha!" he cried, "what has happened to my pipes? They must have been

stopped up of late, but now they are as clear and good as ever."

Again the merry notes went sounding far and wide. The cattle on the

mountain heard them, and those that were old enough remembered how these

notes had called them from their pastures every evening, and so they

started down the mountain-side, the others following.

The merry notes were heard in the village below, and the people were

much astonished thereby. "Why, who can be blowing the pipes of Old

Pipes?" they said. But, as they were all very busy, no one went up to

see. One thing, however, was plain enough: the cattle were coming down

the mountain. And so the two boys and the girl did not have to go after

them, and had an hour for play, for which they were very glad.

The next morning Old Pipes started down to the village with his money,

and on the way he met the Dryad. "Oh, ho!" he cried, "is that you? Why,

I thought my letting you out of the tree was nothing but a dream."

"A dream!" cried the Dryad; "if you only knew how happy you have made

me, you would not think it merely a dream. And has it not benefited you?

Do you not feel happier? Yesterday I heard you playing beautifully on

your pipes."

"Yes, yes," cried he. "I did not understand it before, but I see it all

now. I have really grown younger. I thank you, I thank you, good Dryad,

from the bottom of my heart. It was the finding of the money in my

pocket that made me think it was a dream."

"Oh, I put it in when you were asleep," she said, laughing, "because I

thought you ought to keep it. Good-by, kind, honest man. May you live

long, and be as happy as I am now."

Old Pipes was greatly delighted when he understood that he was really a

younger man; but that made no difference about the money, and he kept on

his way to the village. As soon as he reached it, he was eagerly

questioned as to who had been playing his pipes the evening before, and

when the people heard that it was himself they were very much surprised.

Thereupon Old Pipes told what had happened to him, and then there was

greater wonder, with hearty congratulations and hand-shakes; for Old

Pipes was liked by everyone. The Chief Villager refused to take his

money; and although Old Pipes said that he had not earned it, everyone

present insisted that, as he would now play on his pipes as before, he

should lose nothing because, for a time, he was unable to perform his

duty.

So Old Pipes was obliged to keep his money, and after an hour or two

spent in conversation with his friends he returned to his cottage.

There was one person, however, who was not pleased with what had

happened to Old Pipes. This was an Echo-dwarf who lived on the hills

across the valley. It was his work to echo back the notes of the pipes

whenever they could be heard.

A great many other Echo-dwarfs lived on these hills. They all worked,

but in different ways. Some echoed back the songs of maidens, some the

shouts of children, and others the music that was often heard in the

village. But there was only one who could send back the strong notes of

the pipes of Old Pipes, and this had been his sole duty for many years.

But when the old man grew feeble, and the notes of his pipes could not

be heard on the opposite hills, this Echo-dwarf had nothing to do, and

he spent his time in delightful idleness; and he slept so much and grew

so fat that it made his companions laugh to see him walk.

On the afternoon on which, after so long an interval, the sound of the

pipes was heard on the echo hills, this dwarf was fast asleep behind a

rock. As soon as the first notes reached them, some of his companions

ran to wake him up. Rolling to his feet, he echoed back the merry tune

of Old Pipes.

Naturally, he was very angry at being thus obliged to give up his life

of comfort, and he hoped very much that this pipe-playing would not

occur again. The next afternoon he was awake and listening, and, sure

enough, at the usual hour, along came the notes of the pipes as clear

and strong as they ever had been; and he was obliged to work as long as

Old Pipes played. The Echo-dwarf was very angry. He had supposed, of

course, that the pipe-playing had ceased forever, and he felt that he

had a right to be indignant at being thus deceived. He was so much

disturbed that he made up his mind to go and try to find out how long

this was to last. He had plenty of time, as the pipes were played but

once a day, and he set off early in the morning for the hill on which

Old Pipes lived. It was hard work for the fat little fellow, and when he

had crossed the valley and had gone some distance into the woods on the

hill-side, he stopped to rest, and in a few minutes the Dryad came

tripping along.

"Ho, ho!" exclaimed the dwarf; "what are you doing here? and how did you

get out of your tree?"

"Doing!" cried the Dryad; "I am being happy; that's what I am doing. And

I was let out of my tree by the good old man who plays the pipes to call

the cattle down from the mountain. And it makes me happier to think that

I have been of service to him. I gave him two kisses of gratitude, and

now he is young enough to play his pipes as well as ever."

The Echo-dwarf stepped forward, his face pale with passion. "Am I to

believe," he said, "that you are the cause of this great evil that has

come upon me? and that you are the wicked creature who has again started

this old man upon his career of pipe-playing? What have I ever done to

you that you should have condemned me for years and years to echo back

the notes of those wretched pipes?"

At this the Dryad laughed loudly.

"What a funny little fellow you are!" she said. "Anyone would think you

had been condemned to toil from morning till night; while what you

really have to do is merely to imitate for half an hour every day the

merry notes of Old Pipes's piping. Fie upon you, Echo-dwarf! You are

lazy and selfish; and that is what is the matter with you. Instead of

grumbling at being obliged to do a little wholesome work, which is less,

I am sure, than that of any other echo-dwarf upon the rocky hill-side,

you should rejoice at the good fortune of the old man who has regained

so much of his strength and vigor. Go home and learn to be just and

generous; and then, perhaps, you may be happy. Good-by."

"Insolent creature!" shouted the dwarf, as he shook his fat little fist

at her. "I'll make you suffer for this. You shall find out what it is to

heap injury and insult upon one like me, and to snatch from him the

repose that he has earned by long years of toil." And, shaking his head

savagely, he hurried back to the rocky hill-side.

Every afternoon the merry notes of the pipes of Old Pipes sounded down

into the valley and over the hills and up the mountain-side; and every

afternoon when he had echoed them back, the little dwarf grew more and

more angry with the Dryad. Each day, from early morning till it was time

for him to go back to his duties upon the rocky hill-side, he searched

the woods for her. He intended, if he met her, to pretend to be very

sorry for what he had said, and he thought he might be able to play a

trick upon her which would avenge him well.

One day, while thus wandering among the trees, he met Old Pipes. The

Echo-dwarf did not generally care to see or speak to ordinary people;

but now he was so anxious to find the object of his search, that he

stopped and asked Old Pipes if he had seen the Dryad. The piper had not

noticed the little fellow, and he looked down on him with some surprise.

"No," he said; "I have not seen her, and I have been looking everywhere

for her."

"You!" cried the dwarf, "what do you wish with her?"

Old Pipes then sat down on a stone, so that he should be nearer the ear

of his small companion, and he told what the Dryad had done for him.

When the Echo-dwarf heard that this was the man whose pipes he was

obliged to echo back every day, he would have slain him on the spot, had

he been able; but, as he was not able, he merely ground his teeth and

listened to the rest of the story.

"I am looking for the Dryad now," Old Pipes continued, "on account of my

aged mother. When I was old myself, I did not notice how very old my

mother was; but now it shocks me to see how feeble her years have caused

her to become; and I am looking for the Dryad to ask her to make my

mother younger, as she made me."

The eyes of the Echo-dwarf glistened. Here was a man who might help him

in his plans.

"Your idea is a good one," he said to Old Pipes, "and it does you honor.

But you should know that a Dryad can make no person younger but one who

lets her out of her tree. However, you can manage the affair very

easily. All you need do is to find the Dryad, tell her what you want,

and request her to step into her tree and be shut up for a short time.

Then you will go and bring your mother to the tree; she will open it,

and everything will be as you wish. Is not this a good plan?"

"Excellent!" cried Old Pipes; "and I will go instantly and search more

diligently for the Dryad."

"Take me with you," said the Echo-dwarf. "You can easily carry me on

your strong shoulders; and I shall be glad to help you in any way that I

can."

"Now then," said the little fellow to himself, as Old Pipes carried him

rapidly along, "if he persuades the Dryad to get into a tree,--and she

is quite foolish enough to do it,--and then goes away to bring his

mother, I shall take a stone or a club and I will break off the key of

that tree, so that nobody can ever turn it again. Then Mistress Dryad

will see what she has brought upon herself by her behavior to me."

Before long they came to the great oak tree in which the Dryad had

lived, and at a distance they saw that beautiful creature herself coming

toward them.

"How excellently well everything happens!" said the dwarf. "Put me

down, and I will go. Your business with the Dryad is more important

than mine; and you need not say anything about my having suggested your

plan to you. I am willing that you should have all the credit of it

yourself."

Old Pipes put the Echo-dwarf upon the ground, but the little rogue did

not go away. He hid himself between some low, mossy rocks, and he was so

much like them in color that you would not have noticed him if you had

been looking straight at him.

When the Dryad came up, Old Pipes lost no time in telling her about his

mother, and what he wished her to do. At first, the Dryad answered

nothing, but stood looking very sadly at Old Pipes.

"Do you really wish me to go into my tree again?" she said. "I should

dreadfully dislike to do it, for I don't know what might happen. It is

not at all necessary, for I could make your mother younger at any time

if she would give me the opportunity. I had already thought of making

you still happier in this way, and several times I have waited about

your cottage, hoping to meet your aged mother, but she never comes

outside, and you know a Dryad cannot enter a house. I cannot imagine

what put this idea into your head. Did you think of it yourself?"

"No, I cannot say that I did," answered Old Pipes. "A little dwarf whom

I met in the woods proposed it to me."

"Oh!" cried the Dryad; "now I see through it all. It is the scheme of

that vile Echo-dwarf--your enemy and mine. Where is he? I should like to

see him."

"I think he has gone away," said Old Pipes.

"No, he has not," said the Dryad, whose quick eyes perceived the

Echo-dwarf among the rocks, "there he is. Seize him and drag him out, I

beg of you."

Old Pipes saw the dwarf as soon as he was pointed out to him; and

running to the rocks, he caught the little fellow by the arm and pulled

him out.

"Now, then," cried the Dryad, who had opened the door of the great oak,

"just stick him in there, and we will shut him up. Then I shall be safe

from his mischief for the rest of the time I am free."

Old Pipes thrust the Echo-dwarf into the tree; the Dryad pushed the door

shut; there was a clicking sound of bark and wood, and no one would have

noticed that the big oak had ever had an opening in it.

"There," said the Dryad; "now we need not be afraid of him. And I assure

you, my good piper, that I shall be very glad to make your mother

younger as soon as I can. Will you not ask her to come out and meet me?"

"Of course I will," cried Old Pipes; "and I will do it without delay."

And then, the Dryad by his side, he hurried to his cottage. But when he

mentioned the matter to his mother, the old woman became very angry

indeed. She did not believe in Dryads; and, if they really did exist,

she knew they must be witches and sorceresses, and she would have

nothing to do with them. If her son had ever allowed himself to be

kissed by one of them, he ought to be ashamed of himself. As to its

doing him the least bit of good, she did not believe a word of it. He

felt better than he used to feel, but that was very common. She had

sometimes felt that way herself, and she forbade him ever to mention a

Dryad to her again.

That afternoon, Old Pipes, feeling very sad that his plan in regard to

his mother had failed, sat down upon the rock and played upon his pipes.

The pleasant sounds went down the valley and up the hills and mountain,

but, to the great surprise of some persons who happened to notice the

fact, the notes were not echoed back from the rocky hill-side, but from

the woods on the side of the valley on which Old Pipes lived. The next

day many of the villagers stopped in their work to listen to the echo of

the pipes coming from the woods. The sound was not as clear and strong

as it used to be when it was sent back from the rocky hill-side, but it

certainly came from among the trees. Such a thing as an echo changing

its place in this way had never been heard of before, and nobody was

able to explain how it could have happened. Old Pipes, however, knew

very well that the sound came from the Echo-dwarf shut up in the great

oak tree. The sides of the tree were thin, and the sound of the pipes

could be heard through them, and the dwarf was obliged by the laws of

his being to echo back those notes whenever they came to him. But Old

Pipes thought he might get the Dryad in trouble if he let anyone know

that the Echo-dwarf was shut up in the tree, and so he wisely said

nothing about it.

One day the two boys and the girl who had helped Old Pipes up the hill

were playing in the woods. Stopping near the great oak tree, they heard

a sound of knocking within it, and then a voice plainly said:

"Let me out! let me out!"

For a moment the children stood still in astonishment, and then one of

the boys exclaimed:

"Oh, it is a Dryad, like the one Old Pipes found! Let's let her out!"

"What are you thinking of?" cried the girl. "I am the oldest of all, and

I am only thirteen. Do you wish to be turned into crawling babies? Run!

run! run!"

And the two boys and the girl dashed down into the valley as fast as

their legs could carry them. There was no desire in their youthful

hearts to be made younger than they were, and for fear that their

parents might think it well that they should commence their careers

anew, they never said a word about finding the Dryad tree.

As the summer days went on, Old Pipes's mother grew feebler and feebler.

One day when her son was away, for he now frequently went into the woods

to hunt or fish, or down into the valley to work, she arose from her

knitting to prepare the simple dinner. But she felt so weak and tired

that she was not able to do the work to which she had been so long

accustomed. "Alas! alas!" she said, "the time has come when I am too old

to work. My son will have to hire some one to come here and cook his

meals, make his bed, and mend his clothes. Alas! alas! I had hoped that

as long as I lived I should be able to do these things. But it is not

so. I have grown utterly worthless, and some one else must prepare the

dinner for my son. I wonder where he is." And tottering to the door, she

went outside to look for him. She did not feel able to stand, and

reaching the rustic chair, she sank into it, quite exhausted, and soon

fell asleep.

The Dryad, who had often come to the cottage to see if she could find an

opportunity of carrying out Old Pipes's affectionate design, now

happened by; and seeing that the much-desired occasion had come, she

stepped up quietly behind the old woman and gently kissed her on each

cheek, and then as quietly disappeared.

In a few minutes the mother of Old Pipes awoke, and looking up at the

sun, she exclaimed: "Why, it is almost dinner-time! My son will be here

directly, and I am not ready for him." And rising to her feet, she

hurried into the house, made the fire, set the meat and vegetables to

cook, laid the cloth, and by the time her son arrived the meal was on

the table.

"How a little sleep does refresh one," she said to herself, as she was

bustling about. She was a woman of very vigorous constitution, and at

seventy had been a great deal stronger and more active than her son was

at that age. The moment Old Pipes saw his mother, he knew that the Dryad

had been there; but, while he felt as happy as a king, he was too wise

to say anything about her.

"It is astonishing how well I feel to-day," said his mother; "and either

my hearing has improved or you speak much more plainly than you have

done of late."

The summer days went on and passed away, the leaves were falling from

the trees, and the air was becoming cold.

"Nature has ceased to be lovely," said the Dryad, "and the night winds

chill me. It is time for me to go back into my comfortable quarters in

the great oak. But first I must pay another visit to the cottage of Old

Pipes."

She found the piper and his mother sitting side by side on the rock in

front of the door. The cattle were not to go to the mountain any more

that season, and he was piping them down for the last time. Loud and

merrily sounded the pipes of Old Pipes, and down the mountain-side came

the cattle, the cows by the easiest paths, the sheep by those not quite

so easy, and the goats by the most difficult ones among the rocks; while

from the great oak tree were heard the echoes of the cheerful music.

"How happy they look, sitting there together," said the Dryad; "and I

don't believe it will do them a bit of harm to be still younger." And

moving quietly up behind them, she first kissed Old Pipes on his cheek

and then kissed his mother.

Old Pipes, who had stopped playing, knew what it was, but he did not

move, and said nothing. His mother, thinking that her son had kissed

her, turned to him with a smile and kissed him in return. And then she

arose and went into the cottage, a vigorous woman of sixty, followed by

her son, erect and happy, and twenty years younger than herself.

The Dryad sped away to the woods, shrugging her shoulders as she felt

the cool evening wind.

When she reached the great oak, she turned the key and opened the door.

"Come out," said she to the Echo-dwarf, who sat blinking within. "Winter

is coming on, and I want the comfortable shelter of my tree for myself.

The cattle have come down from the mountain for the last time this year,

the pipes will no longer sound, and you can go to your rocks and have a

holiday until next spring."

Upon hearing these words the dwarf skipped quickly out, and the Dryad

entered the tree and pulled the door shut after her. "Now, then," she

said to herself, "he can break off the key if he likes. It does not

matter to me. Another will grow out next spring. And although the good

piper made me no promise, I know that when the warm days arrive next

year, he will come and let me out again."

The Echo-dwarf did not stop to break the key of the tree. He was too

happy to be released to think of anything else, and he hastened as fast

as he could to his home on the rocky hill-side.