way; but Solomon John remembered what a long neck he had, and would
not let him stop.
At last he reached Farmer Jones, who gave him his basket of apples.
Next he was to go on to a cider-mill, up a little lane by Farmer
Jones's house, to get a jug of cider. But as soon as the horse was
turned into the lane, he began to walk very slowly,--so slowly that
Solomon John thought he would not get there before night. He whistled,
and shouted, and thrust his knees into the horse, but still he would
not go.
"Perhaps the apples are too heavy for him," said he. So he began by
throwing one of the apples out of the basket. It hit the fence by the
side of the road, and that started up the horse, and he went on
merrily.
"That was the trouble," said Solomon John; "that apple was too heavy
for him."
But very soon the horse began to go slower and slower.
So Solomon John thought he would try another apple. This hit a large
rock, and bounded back under the horse's feet, and sent him off at a
great pace. But very soon he fell again into a slow walk.
Solomon John had to try another apple. This time it fell into a pool
of water, and made a great splash, and set the horse out again for a
little while; he soon returned to a slow walk,--so slow that Solomon
John thought it would be to-morrow morning before he got to the
cider-mill.
"It is rather a waste of apples," thought he; "but I can pick them up
as I come back, because the horse will be going home at a quick pace."
So he flung out another apple; that fell among a party of ducks, and
they began to make such a quacking and a waddling, that it frightened
the horse into a quick trot.
So the only way Solomon John could make his horse go was by flinging
his apples, now on one side, now on the other. One time he frightened
a cow, that ran along by the side of the road, while the horse raced
with her. Another time he started up a brood of turkeys, that gobbled
and strutted enough to startle twenty horses. In another place he came
near hitting a boy, who gave such a scream that it sent the horse off
at a furious rate.
And Solomon John got quite excited himself, and he did not stop till
he had thrown away all his apples, and had reached the corner of the
cider-mill.
"Very well," said he, "if the horse is so lazy, he won't mind my
stopping to pick up the apples on the way home. And I am not sure but
I shall prefer walking a little to riding the beast."
The man came out to meet him from the cider-mill, and reached him the
jug. He was just going to take it, when he turned his horse's head
round, and, delighted at the idea of going home, the horse set off at
a full run without waiting for the jug. Solomon John clung to the
reins, and his knees held fast to the horse. He called out "Whoa!
whoa!" but the horse would not stop.
He went galloping on past the boy, who stopped, and flung an apple at
him; past the turkeys, that came and gobbled at him; by the cow, that
turned and ran back in a race with them until her breath gave out; by
the ducks, that came and quacked at him; by an old donkey, that brayed
over the wall at him; by some hens, that ran into the road under the
horse's feet, and clucked at him; by a great rooster, that stood up on
a fence, and crowed at him; by Farmer Jones, who looked out to see
what had become of him; down the village street, and he never stopped
till he had reached the door of the house.
Out came Mr. and Mrs. Peterkin, Agamemnon, Elizabeth Eliza, and the
little boys.
Solomon John got off his horse all out of breath.
"Where is the jug of cider?" asked Mrs. Peterkin.
"It is at the cider-mill," said Solomon John.
"At the mill!" exclaimed Mrs. Peterkin.
"Yes," said Solomon John; "the little boys had better walk out for it;
they will enjoy it; and they had better take a basket; for on the way
they will find plenty of apples, scattered all along on either side of
the lane, and hens, and ducks, and turkeys, and a donkey."
The little boys looked at each other, and went; but they stopped
first, and put on their india-rubber boots.
WILD ROBIN
By Sophie May
In the green valley of the Yarrow, near the castle-keep of Norham,
dwelt an honest sonsy little family, whose only grief was an unhappy
son, named Robin.
Janet, with jimp form, bonnie eyes, and cherry cheeks, was the best of
daughters: the boys, Sandie and Davie, were swift-footed, brave, kind,
and obedient; but Robin, the youngest, had a stormy temper, and, when
his will was crossed, he became as reckless as a reeling hurricane.
Once, in a passion, he drove two of his father's "kye," or cattle,
down a steep hill to their death. He seemed not to care for home or
kindred, and often pierced the tender heart of his mother with sharp
words. When she came at night, and "happed" the bed-clothes carefully
about his form, and then stooped to kiss his nut-brown cheeks, he
turned away with a frown, muttering, "Mither, let me be."
It was a sad case with Wild Robin, who seemed to have neither love nor
conscience.
"My heart is sair," sighed his mother, "wi' greeting over sich a son."
"He hates our auld cottage and our muckle wark," said the poor father.
"Ah, weel! I could a'maist wish the fairies had him for a season, to
teach him better manners."
This the gudeman said heedlessly, little knowing there was any danger
of Robin's being carried away to Elfland. Whether the fairies were at
that instant listening under the eaves, will never be known; but it
chanced, one day, that Wild Robin was sent across the moors to fetch
the kye.
"I'll rin away," thought the boy: "'tis hard indeed if ilka day a
great lad like me must mind the kye. I'll gae aff; and they'll think
me dead."
So he gaed, and he gaed, over round swelling hills, over old
battle-fields, past the roofless ruins of houses whose walls were
crowned with tall climbing grasses, till he came to a crystal sheet of
water, called St. Mary's Loch. Here he paused to take breath. The sky
was dull and lowering; but at his feet were yellow flowers, which
shone, on that gray day, like freaks of sunshine.
He threw himself wearily upon the grass, not heeding that he had
chosen his couch within a little mossy circle known as a "fairy's
ring." Wild Robin knew that the country people would say the fays had
pressed that green circle with their light feet. He had heard all the
Scottish lore of brownies, elves, will-o'-the-wisps, and the strange
water-kelpies, who shriek with eldritch laughter. He had been told
that the queen of the fairies had coveted him from his birth, and
would have stolen him away, only that, just as she was about to seize
him from the cradle, he had _sneezed_; and from that instant the
fairy-spell was over, and she had no more control of him.
Yet, in spite of all these stories, the boy was not afraid; and if he
had been informed that any of the uncanny people were, even now,
haunting his footsteps, he would not have believed it.
"I see," said Wild Robin, "the sun is drawing his night-cap over his
eyes, and dropping asleep. I believe I'll e'en take a nap mysel', and
see what comes o' it."
In two minutes he had forgotten St. Mary's Loch, the hills, the moors,
the yellow flowers. He heard, or fancied he heard, his sister Janet
calling him home.
"And what have ye for supper?" he muttered between his teeth.
"Parritch and milk," answered the lassie gently.
"Parritch and milk! Whist! say nae mair! Lang, lang! may ye wait for
Wild Robin: he'll not gae back for oatmeal parritch!"
Next a sad voice fell on his ear.
"Mither's; and she mourns me dead!" thought he; but it was only the
far-off village-bell, which sounded like the echo of music he had
heard lang syne, but might never hear again.
"D'ye think I'm not alive?" tolled the bell. "I sit all day in my
little wooden temple, brooding over the sins of the parish."
"A brazen lie!" cried Robin.
"Nay, the truth, as I'm a living soul! Wae worth ye, Robin Telfer: ye
think yersel' hardly used. Say, have your brithers softer beds than
yours? Is your ain father served with larger potatoes or creamier
buttermilk? Whose mither sae kind as yours, ungrateful chiel? Gae to
Elfland, Wild Robin; and dool and wae follow ye! dool and wae follow
ye!"
The round yellow sun had dropped behind the hills; the evening breezes
began to blow; and now could be heard the faint trampling of small
hoofs, and the tinkling of tiny bridle-bells: the fairies were
trooping over the ground. First of all rode the queen.
"Her skirt was of the grass-green silk,
Her mantle of the velvet fine;
At ilka tress of her horse's mane
Hung fifty silver bells and nine."
But Wild Robin's closed eyes saw nothing; his sleep-sealed ears heard
nothing. The queen of the fairies dismounted, stole up to him, and
laid her soft fingers on his cheeks.
"Here is a little man after my ain heart," said she: "I like his
knitted brow, and the downward curve of his lips. Knights, lift him
gently, set him on a red-roan steed, and waft him away to Fairy-land."
Wild Robin was lifted as gently as a brown leaf borne by the wind; he
rode as softly as if the red-roan steed had been saddled with satin,
and shod with velvet. It even may be that the faint tinkling of the
bridle-bells lulled him into a deeper slumber; for when he awoke it
was morning in Fairy-land.
Robin sprang from his mossy couch, and stared about him. Where was he?
He rubbed his eyes, and looked again. Dreaming, no doubt; but what
meant all these nimble little beings bustling hither and thither in
hot haste? What meant these pearl-bedecked caves, scarcely larger than
swallows' nests? these green canopies, overgrown with moss? He pinched
himself, and gazed again. Countless flowers nodded to him, and seemed,
like himself, on tiptoe with curiosity, he thought. He beckoned one of
the busy, dwarfish little brownies toward him.
"I ken I'm talking in my sleep," said the lad; "but can ye tell me
what dell is this, and how I chanced to be in it?"
The brownie might or might not have heard; but, at any rate, he
deigned no reply, and went on with his task, which was pounding seeds
in a stone mortar.
"Am I Robin Telfer, of the Valley of Yarrow, and yet canna shake aff
my silly dreams?"
"Weel, my lad," quoth the queen of the fairies, giving him a smart tap
with her wand, "stir yersel', and be at work; for naebody idles in
Elf-land."
Bewildered Robin ventured a look at the little queen. By daylight she
seemed somewhat sleepy and tired; and was withal so tiny, that he
might almost have taken her between his thumb and finger, and twirled
her above his head; yet she poised herself before him on a
mullein-stalk and looked every inch a queen.
Robin found her gaze oppressive; for her eyes were hard and cold and
gray, as if they had been little orbs of granite.
"Get ye to work, Wild Robin!"
"What to do?" meekly asked the boy, hungrily glancing at a few kernels
of rye which had rolled out of one of the brownie's mortars.
"Are ye hungry, my laddie? Touch a grain of rye if ye dare! Shell
these dry beans; and if so be ye're starving, eat as many as ye can
boil in an acorn-cup."
With these words she gave the boy a withered bean-pod, and, summoning
a meek little brownie, bade him see that the lad did not over-fill the
acorn-cup, and that he did not so much as peck at a grain of rye.
Then glancing sternly at her prisoner, she withdrew, sweeping after
her the long train of her green robe.
The dull days crept by, and still there seemed no hope that Wild Robin
would ever escape from his beautiful but detested prison. He had no
wings, poor laddie; and he could neither become invisible nor draw
himself through a keyhole bodily.
It is true, he had mortal companions: many chubby babies; many
bright-eyed boys and girls, whose distracted parents were still
seeking them, far and wide, upon the earth. It would almost seem that
the wonders of Fairy-land might make the little prisoners happy. There
were countless treasures to be had for the taking, and the very dust
in the little streets was precious with specks of gold: but the poor
children shivered for the want of a mother's love; they all pined for
the dear home-people.
If a certain task seemed to them particularly irksome, the heartless
queen was sure to find it out, and oblige them to perform it, day
after day. If they disliked any article of food, that, and no other,
were they forced to eat, or starve.
Wild Robin, loathing his withered beans and unsalted broths, longed
intensely for one little breath of fragrant steam from the toothsome
parritch on his father's table, one glance at a roasted potato. He was
homesick for the gentle sister he had neglected, the rough brothers
whose cheeks he had pelted black and blue; and yearned for the very
chinks in the walls, the very thatch on the home-roof.
Gladly would he have given every fairy-flower, at the root of which
clung a lump of gold ore, if he might have had his own coverlet
"happed" about him once more by the gentle hands he had despised.
"Mither," he whispered in his dreams, "my shoon are worn, and my feet
bleed; but I'll soon creep hame, if I can. Keep the parritch warm for
me."
Robin was as strong as a mountain-goat; and his strength was put to
the task of threshing rye, grinding oats and corn, or drawing water
from a brook.
Every night, troops of gay fairies and plodding brownies stole off on
a visit to the upper world, leaving Robin and his companions in
ever-deeper despair. Poor Robin! he was fain to sing,--
"Oh that my father had ne'er on me smiled!
Oh that my mother had ne'er to me sung!
Oh that my cradle had never been rocked,
But that I had died when I was young!"
Now, there was one good-natured brownie who pitied Robin. When he took
a journey to earth with his fellow-brownies, he often threshed rye for
the laddie's father, or churned butter in his good mother's dairy,
unseen and unsuspected. If the little creature had been watched, and
paid for these good offices, he would have left the farmhouse forever
in sore displeasure.
To homesick Robin he brought news of the family who mourned him as
dead. He stole a silky tress of Janet's fair hair, and wondered to see
the boy weep over it; for brotherly affection is a sentiment which
never yet penetrated the heart of a brownie. The dull little sprite
would gladly have helped the poor lad to his freedom, but told him
that only on one night of the year was there the least hope, and that
was on Hallow-e'en, when the whole nation of fairies ride in
procession through the streets of earth.
So Robin was instructed to spin a dream, which the kind brownie would
hum in Janet's ear while she slept. By this means the lassie would not
only learn that her brother was in the power of the elves, but would
also learn how to release him.
Accordingly, the night before Hallow-e'en, the bonnie Janet dreamed
that the long-lost Robin was living in Elf-land, and that he was to
pass through the streets with a cavalcade of fairies. But, alas! how
should even a sister know him in the dim starlight, and among the
passing troops of elfish and mortal riders? The dream assured her that
she might let the first company go by, and the second; but Robin would
be one of the third:--
"First let pass the black, Janet,
And syne let pass the brown;
But grip ye to the milk-white steed,
And pull the rider down.
For _I_ ride on the milk-white steed,
And aye nearest the town:
Because I was a christened lad
They gave me that renown.
My right hand will be gloved, Janet;
My left hand will be bare;
And these the tokens I give thee,
No doubt I will be there.
They'll shape me in your arms, Janet,
A toad, snake, and an eel;
But hold me fast, nor let me gang,
As you do love me weel.
They'll shape me in your arms, Janet,
A dove, bat, and a swan:
Cast your green mantle over me,
I'll be myself again."
The good sister Janet, far from remembering any of the old sins of her
brother, wept for joy to know that he was yet among the living. She
told no one of her strange dream; but hastened secretly to the Miles
Cross, saw the strange cavalcade pricking through the greenwood, and
pulled down the rider on the milk-white steed, holding him fast
through all his changing shapes. But when she had thrown her green
mantle over him, and clasped him in her arms as her own brother Robin,
the angry voice of the fairy queen was heard:--
"Up then spake the queen of fairies,
Out of a bush of rye,
'You've taken away the bonniest lad
In all my companie.
'Had I but had the wit, yestreen,
That I have learned to-day,
I'd pinned the sister to her bed
Ere he'd been won away!'"
However, it was too late now. Wild Robin was safe, and the elves had
lost their power over him forever. His forgiving parents and his
leal-hearted brothers welcomed him home with more than the old love.
So grateful and happy was the poor laddie, that he nevermore grumbled
at his oatmeal parritch, or minded his kye with a scowling brow.
But to the end of his days, when he heard mention of fairies and
brownies, his mind wandered off in a mizmaze. He died in peace, and
was buried on the banks of the Yarrow.
DEACON THOMAS WALES' WILL
By Mary E. Wilkins Freeman
In the Name of God Amen! the Thirteenth Day of September One Thousand
Seven Hundred Fifty & eight, I, Thomas Wales of Braintree, in the
County of Suffolk & Province of the Massachusetts Bay in New England,
Gent--being in good health of Body and of Sound Disposing mind and
Memory, Thanks be given to God--Calling to mind my mortality, Do
therefore in my health make and ordain this my Last Will and
Testament. And First I Recommend my Soul into the hand of God who gave
it--Hoping through grace to obtain Salvation thro' the merits and
Mediation of Jesus Christ my only Lord and Dear Redeemer, and my body
to be Decently interd, at the Discretion of my Executer, believing at
the General Resurection to receive the Same again by the mighty Power
of God--And such worldly estate as God in his goodness hath graciously
given me after Debts, funeral Expenses &c, are Paid I give & Dispose
of the Same as Followeth--
_Imprimis_--I Give to my beloved Wife Sarah a good Sute of mourning
apparrel Such as she may Choose--also if she acquit my estate of Dower
and third-therin (as we have agreed) Then that my Executer return all
of Household movables she bought at our marriage & since that are
remaining, also to Pay to her or Her Heirs That Note of Forty Pound I
gave to her, when she acquited my estate and I hers. Before Division
to be made as herein exprest, also the Southwest fire-Room in my
House, a right in my Cellar, Halfe the Garden, also the Privilege of
water at the well & yard room and to bake in the oven what she hath
need of to improve her Life-time by her.
* * * * *
After this, followed a division of his property amongst his children,
five sons, and two daughters. The "Homeplace" was given to his sons
Ephraim and Atherton. Ephraim had a good house of his own, so he took
his share of the property in land, and Atherton went to live in the
old homestead. His quarters had been poor enough; he had not been so
successful as his brothers, and had been unable to live as well. It
had been a great cross to his wife, Dorcas, who was very high
spirited. She had compared, bitterly, the poverty of her household
arrangements with the abundant comfort of her sisters-in-law.
Now, she seized eagerly at the opportunity of improving her style of
living. The old Wales house was quite a pretentious edifice for those
times. All the drawback to her delight was, that Grandma should have
the southwest fire-room. She wanted to set up her high-posted bedstead
with its enormous feather-bed in that, and have it for her fore-room.
Properly, it was the fore-room, being right across the entry from the
family sitting room. There was a tall chest of drawers that would fit
in so nicely between the windows, too. Take it altogether, she was
chagrined at having to give up the southwest room; but there was no
help for it--there it was in Deacon Wales' will.
Mrs. Dorcas was the youngest of all the sons' wives, as her husband
was the latest born. She was quite a girl to some of them. Grandma had
never more than half approved of her. Dorcas was high-strung and
flighty, she said. She had her doubts about living happily with her.
But Atherton was anxious for this division of the property, and he was
her youngest darling, so she gave in. She felt lonely, and out of her
element, when everything was arranged, she established in the
southwest fire-room, and Atherton's family keeping house in the
others, though things started pleasantly and peaceably enough.
It occurred to her that her son Samuel might have her own "help," a
stout woman, who had worked in her kitchen for many years, and she
take in exchange his little bound girl, Ann Ginnins. She had always
taken a great fancy to the child. There was a large closet out of the
southwest room, where she could sleep, and she could be made very
useful, taking steps, and running "arrants" for her.
Mr. Samuel and his wife hesitated a little, when this plan was
proposed. In spite of the trouble she gave them, they were attached to
Ann, and did not like to part with her, and Mrs. Polly was just
getting her "larnt" her own ways, as she put it. Privately, she feared
Grandma would undo all the good she had done, in teaching Ann to be
smart and capable. Finally they gave in, with the understanding that
it was not to be considered necessarily a permanent arrangement, and
Ann went to live with the old lady.
Mrs. Dorcas did not relish this any more than she did the appropriation
of the southwest fire-room. She had never liked Ann very well. Besides
she had two little girls of her own, and she fancied Ann rivaled them
in Grandma's affection. So, soon after the girl was established in the
house, she began to _show out_ in various little ways.
Thirsey, her youngest child, was a mere baby, a round fat dumpling of
a thing. She was sweet, and good-natured, and the pet of the whole
family. Ann was very fond of playing with her, and tending her, and
Mrs. Dorcas began to take advantage of it. The minute Ann was at
liberty she was called upon to take care of Thirsey. The constant
carrying about such a heavy child soon began to make her shoulders
stoop and ache. Then Grandma took up the cudgels. She was smart and
high-spirited, but she was a very peaceable old lady on her own
account, and fully resolved "to put up with every thing from Dorcas,
rather than have strife in the family." She was not going to see this
helpless little girl imposed on, however. "The little gal ain't goin'
to get bent all over, tendin' that heavy baby, Dorcas," she
proclaimed. "You can jist make up your mind to it. She didn't come
here to do sech work."
Dorcas had to make up her mind to it, but it rankled.
Ann's principal duties were scouring "the brasses" in Grandma's room,
taking steps for her, and spinning her stint every day. Grandma set
smaller stints than Mrs. Polly. As time went on, she helped about the
cooking. She and Grandma cooked their own victuals, and ate from a
little separate table in the common kitchen. It was a very large room,
and might have accommodated several families, if they could have
agreed. There was a big oven, and a roomy fire-place. Good Deacon
Wales had probably seen no reason at all why his "beloved wife" should
not have her right therein with the greatest peace and concord.
But it soon came to pass that Mrs. Dorcas' pots and kettles were all
prepared to hang on the trammels when Grandma's were, and an army of
cakes and pies marshalled to go in the oven when Grandma had proposed
to do some baking. Grandma bore it patiently for a long time; but Ann
was with difficulty restrained from freeing her small mind, and her
black eyes snapped more dangerously at every new offence.
One morning, Grandma had two loaves of "riz bread," and some election
cakes, rising, and was intending to bake them in about an hour, when
they should be sufficiently light. What should Mrs. Dorcas do, but mix
up sour milk bread and some pies with the greatest speed, and fill up
the oven, before Grandma's cookery was ready!