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[Illustration: THE FARMER'S WIFE]
THE QUEEN BEE AND OTHER NATURE STORIES
Translated from the Danish of
CARL EWALD
by
G · C · Moore Smith
Thomas Nelson & Sons
London · Edinburgh · Dublin
And New York · 1908 · · ·
PREFACE.
BY THE TRANSLATOR.
Carl Ewald's "Æventyr" or Nature Stories are well known and very
popular in Denmark and the rest of Scandinavia, though they have never
before this been brought to the notice of English readers. There are a
number of series of them, the first of which consists of the stories
given in this little book.
This first series appeared in 1882, but took its definitive form in
the edition of 1895. When it first appeared, it was introduced by a
preface written by the author's father, the well-known historical
novelist, H. F. Ewald. This preface ran as follows:--
"It has often been a subject of complaint that our story books, with
their nixies, trolls, and bewitched princes and princesses, give
children superstitious ideas, and affect their imagination in a way
which is not the best possible.
"The author of the little stories to which I am writing a word of
preface has struck out a way of his own. Holding that Nature, with
its manifold and many-coloured life, contains new material on which
children in their own way can draw, he has taken as the subject of his
stories the phenomena of natural history.
"As I think, he has performed his task in a taking and attractive
manner, the child's fancy being sufficiently enthralled at the same
time that it gets a true conception of the working of natural forces,
a conception which will fix itself in the memory all the better for
its poetical clothing.
"It seems to me that the author's view is a sound one, so I gladly
recommend his little book to parents who wish their children to read
what is both pleasurable and instructive."
There are some touches in the stories, of course, which belong rather
to Denmark than England--for example, the custom of ringing the church
bells at sunset, the complete disappearance of starlings in the winter
months, the "starlings' box" which is ready for them to rest in on
their return, the presence of the stork. The phenomenon of beech
forests extruding and supplanting oak forests (referred to by Dr.
Wallace in "Darwinism" as one of the most striking instances of
"natural selection") is one of which there are clearer traces in
Scandinavian countries than in Great Britain. But, on the whole,
Nature is the same in England as in Denmark, and the English child
who learns natural history from these stories will not be misdirected.
Meanwhile, I hope that these stories of Carl Ewald will be loved for
their own sake as stories merely. They have so much poetical
imagination, ingenuity of incident, and bright wit, that they seem
entitled to some share in the popularity accorded to the children's
tales of another Danish writer, Hans Christian Andersen. Some English
children have already listened to them eagerly, and many others, I
hope, will take them into their favour when they are sent out into the
world. They may even be read with pleasure by some who are children no
longer. If this is not so, the fault must lie with the translator.
G. C. MOORE SMITH.
SHEFFIELD, 1907.
CONTENTS.
THE QUEEN BEE
THE ANEMONES
THE MIST
THE BEECH AND THE OAK
THE DRAGON-FLY AND THE WATER-LILY
THE WEEDS
THE SPARROW
LIST OF COLOURED PLATES.
THE FARMER'S WIFE, _After a Drawing by Edmund Dulac._
THE BEEHIVES, _After a Drawing by Gilbert James._
MY LADY SPRING, _After a Drawing by Margaret E. Thompson._
THE EVENING HOUR, _After a Drawing by Edmund Dulac._
IN THE EARLY DAYS, _After a Drawing by John Hassall._
THE DRAGON-FLY
AND THE WATER-LILY, _After a Drawing by Marie Webb._
THE FARMER AND HIS BOYS, _After a Drawing by Gilbert James._
PREPARING FOR FLIGHT, _After a Drawing by Carton Moore Park._
ILLUSTRATIVE BORDERS, HEADPIECES, ETC.
_A DEDICATION._
(_After CARL EWALD._)
_We strayed, thy little hand in mine,
One summer morning fresh and fine,
In a wood where birches met;
A great sun-bonnet served as frame
To rounded childish cheeks aflame--
Thy voice is ringing yet!
Of birdies' songs, of flowers, of trees--
Whate'er thy tender mind could seize--
I wove thee tales, my pet:
Ah, thou canst not remember it,
And I can ne'er forget!_
_And now my locks are thin and gray,
For years since then have slipped away,
For gladness or regret!
And ah, the woods where now I roam,
And those wide chambers of my home,
Know thee no more, Ninette!
Since I shall never find thee then,
Oh, let this Book remind thee then
Of a wood where birches met:
For thou canst not remember it,
And I can ne'er forget!_
EWALD'S DANISH NATURE STORIES.
Series I.
The Queen Bee
[Illustration: THE QUEEN BEE]
The farmer opened his hive. "Off with you!" he said to the bees. "The
sun is shining, and everywhere the flowers are coming out, so that it
is a joy to see them. Get to work, and gather a good lot of honey for
me to sell to the shopkeeper in the autumn. 'Many a streamlet makes a
river,' and you know these are bad times for farmers."
"What does that matter to us?" said the bees. But all the same they
flew out; for they had been sitting all the winter in the hive, and
they longed for a breath of fresh air.
They hummed and buzzed, they stretched their legs, they tried their
wings. They swarmed out in all directions; they crawled up and down
the hive; they flew off to the flowers and bushes, or wandered all
round on the ground. There were hundreds and hundreds of them.
Last of all came the queen. She was bigger than the others, and it was
she who ruled the hive.
"Stop your nonsense, little children," she said, "and set to work and
do something. A good bee does not idle, but turns to with a will and
makes good use of its time."
So she divided them into parties and set them to work.
"You over there, fly out and see if there is any honey in the flowers.
The others can collect flower-dust, and when you come home give it in
smartly to the old bees in the hive."
Away they flew at once. But all the very young ones stayed behind.
They made the last party, for they had never been out with the others.
"What are _we_ to do?" they asked.
"You! you must perspire," said the queen. "One, two, three! Then we
can begin our work."
And they perspired as well as they had learned to, and the prettiest
yellow wax came out of their bodies.
"Good!" said the queen. "Now we will begin to build."
The old bees took the wax, and began to build a number of little
six-sided cells, all alike and close up to one another. All the time
they were building, the others came flying in with flower-dust and
honey, which they laid at the queen's feet.
"We can now knead the dough," she said. "But first put a little honey
in--that makes it taste so much better."
They kneaded and kneaded, and before very long they had made some
pretty little loaves of bee-bread, which they carried into the cells.
"Now let us go on with the building," commanded the queen bee, and
they perspired wax and built for all they were worth.
"And now _my_ work begins," said the queen, and she heaved a deep
sigh; for her work was the hardest work of all.
She sat down in the middle of the hive and began to lay her eggs. She
laid great heaps of them, and the bees were kept very busy running
with the little eggs in their mouths and carrying them into the new
cells. Each egg had a little cell to itself; and when they had all
been put in their places, the queen gave orders to fix doors to all
the cells and shut them fast.
"Good!" she said, when this was done. "I want you now to build me ten
fine big rooms in the out-of-the-way parts of the hive."
The bees had them ready in no time, and then the queen laid ten pretty
eggs, one in each of the big rooms, and the doors were fixed as
before.
Every day the bees flew in and out, gathering great heaps of honey and
flower-dust; but in the evening, when their work was done, they would
open the doors just a crack and have a peep at the eggs.
"Take care," the queen said one day. "They are coming!"
And all the eggs burst at once, and in every cell lay a pretty little
bee-baby.
"What funny creatures!" said the young bees. "They have no eyes, and
where are their legs and wings?"
"They are grubs," said the queen. "You simpletons looked just like
that yourselves once upon a time. One must be a grub before one can
become a bee. Be quick now, and give them something to eat."
The bees bestirred themselves to feed the little ones, but they were
not equally kind to them all. The ten, however, that lay in the large
cells got as much to eat as ever they wanted, and every day a great
quantity of honey was carried in to them.
"They are princesses," said the queen, "so you must treat them well.
The others you can stint; they are only working people, and they must
accustom themselves to be content with what they can get."
And every morning the poor little wretches got a little piece of
bee-bread and nothing more, and with that they had to be satisfied,
though they were ever so hungry.
In one of the little six-sided cells close by the princesses' chambers
lay a little tiny grub. She was the youngest of them all, and only
just come out of the egg. She could not see, but she could plainly
hear the grown-up bees talking outside, and for a while she lay quite
still and kept her thoughts to herself.
All at once she said out loud, "I could eat a little more," and she
knocked at her door.
"You have had enough for to-day," answered the old bee who was
appointed to be head bee-nurse, creeping up and down in the passage
outside.
"Maybe, but I am hungry!" shouted the little grub. "I will go into one
of the princesses' chambers; I have not room to stir here."
"Just listen to her!" said the old bee mockingly. "One would think by
the demands she makes that she was a fine little princess. You are
born to toil and drudge, my little friend. You are a mere working bee,
and you will never be anything else all your days."
[Illustration: THE BEEHIVES]
"But I want to be queen!" cried the grub, and thumped on the door.
Of course the old bee did not answer such nonsense, but went on to the
others. From every side they were calling out for more food, and the
little grub could hear it all.
"It is hard, though," she thought, "that we should have to be so
hungry."
And then she knocked on the princess's wall and called to her, "Give
me a little of your honey. Let me come into your chamber. I am lying
here so hungry, and I am just as good as you."
"Are you? Just you wait till I am a reigning queen," said the
princess. "You may be sure that when that time comes I shall not
forget your impertinence."
But she had scarcely said this before the other princesses began to
cry out in the most dreadful manner.
"_You're_ not going to be queen! _I_ shall be queen! _I_ shall be
queen!" they shrieked all together, and they began to knock on the
walls and make a frightful disturbance.
The head bee-nurse came running up in an instant and opened the doors.
"What are your graces' orders?" she asked, dropping a curtsy and
scraping the ground with her feet.
"More honey!" they shouted, all in one voice. "But me first--me first.
I am the one who is to be queen."
"In a moment, in a moment, your graces," she answered, and ran off as
fast as her six legs could carry her.
She soon came back with many other bees. They were dragging ever so
much honey, which they crammed down the cross little princesses'
throats. And then they got them to hold their tongues and lie still
and rest.
But the little grub lay awake, thinking over what had happened. She
longed so much for some honey that she began to shake the door again.
"Give me some honey! I can't stand it any longer. I am just as good as
the others."
The old bee tried to hush her.
"Hold your tongue, little bawler! The queen's coming."
And at the same moment the queen bee came.
"Go your ways," she said to the bees; "I wish to be alone."
For a long time she stood in silence before the princesses' chambers.
"Now they are lying there asleep," she said at last. "From morning
till evening they do nothing but eat and sleep, and they grow bigger
and fatter every day. In a few days they will be full grown, and will
creep out of their cells. Then my turn will be over. I know that too
well. I have heard the bees saying to one another that they would like
to have a younger and more beautiful queen, and they will chase me
away in disgrace. But I will not submit to it. To-morrow I will kill
them all; then I can remain queen till I die."
Then she went away. But the little grub had heard all she said.
"Dear me!" she thought; "it is really a pity about the little
princesses. They are certainly very uppish, and they have not been
nice to me, but still it would be sad if the wicked queen killed
them. I think I will tell the old growler outside in the passage all
about it."
She began once more knocking at the door, and the head bee-nurse came
running up, but this time she was fearfully angry.
"You must mind what you are doing, my good grub," she said. "You are
the youngest of them all, and you are the worst for making a noise.
Next time I shall tell the queen."
"First listen to me," said the grub, and she told her about the
queen's wicked design.
"Good gracious! is that true?" cried the old nurse, and beat her wings
in horror. And without hearing a word more, she hurried off to tell
the other bees.
"I think I deserve a little honey for what I have done," said the
little grub. "But I can now lie down and sleep with a good
conscience."
Next evening, when the queen thought that all the bees were in bed,
she came to kill the princesses. The grub could hear her talking aloud
to herself. But she was quite afraid of the wicked queen, and dared
not stir.
"I hope she won't kill the princesses," she thought, and squeezed
herself nearer to the door to hear what happened.
The queen looked cautiously round on all sides, and then opened the
first of the doors. But at the same moment the bees swarmed out from
all directions, seized her by the legs and wings, and dragged her out.
"What is the matter?" she cried. "Are you raising a rebellion?"
"No, your majesty," answered the bees, with great reverence; "but we
know that you are intending to kill the princesses, and _that_ you
shall not be allowed to do. What would become of us in the autumn
after your majesty's death?"
"Let me go!" cried the queen, and tried to get away. "I am queen now
anyway, and have the power to do what I like. How do you know that I
shall die in the autumn?"
But the bees held her fast, and dragged her outside the hive. There
they set her free, but she shook her wings in a passion and said to
them,--
"You are disloyal subjects, who are not worth ruling over. I won't
stay here an hour longer, but I will go out into the world and build a
new nest. Are there any of you who will come with me?"
Some of the old bees, who had been grubs at the same time as the
queen, declared that they would follow her. And soon after they flew
away.
"Now we have no queen," said the others, "we must take good care of
the princesses." And so they crammed them with honey from morning till
night; and they grew, and grabbed, and squabbled, and made more noise
each day than the day before.
As for the little grub, no one gave a single thought to her.
One morning the doors of the princesses' chambers flew open, and all
ten of them stepped out, beautiful full-grown queen bees. The other
bees ran up and gazed at them in admiration.
"How pretty they are!" they said. "It is hard to say which is the
most beautiful."
"_I_ am!" one cried.
"You make a mistake," said another, and stabbed her with her sting.
"You are rather conceited," shrieked a third. "I imagine that _I_ am
rather prettier than you are."
And immediately they all began calling out at once, and soon after
began to fight with one another as hard as ever they could.
The bees would have liked to separate them, but the old head bee-nurse
said to them,--
"Let them go on fighting; then we shall see which of them is the
strongest, and we will choose her to be our queen. We can't do with
more than one."
At this the bees formed round in a ring and looked on at the battle.
It lasted a long time, and it was fiercely fought. Wings and legs
which had been bitten off were flying about in the air, and after some
time eight of the princesses lay dead upon the ground. The two last
were still fighting. One of them had lost all her wings, and the
other had only four legs left.
"She will be a poor sort of queen whichever of the two we get," said
one of the bees. "We should have done better to have kept the old
one."
But she might have spared herself the remark, for in the same moment
the princesses gave each other such a stab with their stings that they
both fell dead as a door-nail.
"That is a pretty business!" called the bees, and ran about among each
other in dismay. "Now we have no queen! What shall we do? what shall
we do?"
In despair they crawled about the hive, and did not know which way to
turn. But the oldest and cleverest sat in a corner and held a council.
For a long time they talked this way and that as to what they should
decide on doing in their unhappy circumstances. But at last the head
bee-nurse got a hearing, and said,--
"I can tell you how you can get out of the difficulty, if you will but
follow my advice. I remember that the same misfortune happened to us
in this hive a long time ago. I was then a grub myself. I lay in my
cell, and distinctly heard what took place. All the princesses had
killed one another, and the old queen had gone out into the world: it
was just as it is now. But the bees took one of us grubs and laid her
in one of the princesses' cells. They fed her every day with the
finest and best honey in the whole hive; and when she was full-grown,
she was a charming and good queen. I can clearly remember the whole
affair, for I thought at the time that they might just as well have
taken me. But we may do the same thing again. I propose that we act in
the same way."
The bees were delighted, and cried that they would willingly do so,
and they ran off at once to fetch a grub.
"Wait a moment," cried the head bee-nurse, "and take me with you. At
any rate, I will come and help you. Consider now. It must be one of
the youngest grubs, for she must have time to think over her new
position. When one has been brought up to be a mere drudge, it is not
easy to accustom oneself to wear a crown."
That also seemed to the bees to be wise, and the old one went on,--
"Close by the side of the princesses' cells lies a little grub. She is
the youngest of them all. She must have learnt a good deal by hearing
the princesses' refined conversation, and I have noticed that she has
some character. Besides, it was she who was honourable enough to tell
me about the wicked intentions of the old queen. Let us take her."
At once they went in a solemn procession to the six-sided cell where
the little grub lay. The head bee-nurse politely knocked at the door,
opened it cautiously, and told the grub what the bees had decided. At
first she could hardly believe her own ears; but when they had carried
her carefully into one of the large, delightful chambers, and brought
her as much honey as she could eat, she perceived that it was all in
earnest.
"So I am to be queen after all," she said to the head bee-nurse. "You
would not believe it, you old growler!"
"I hope that your majesty will forget the rude remarks that I made at
the time you lay in the six-sided cell," said the old bee, with a
respectful bow.
"I forgive you," said the new-baked princess. "Fetch me some more
honey."
A little time after the grub was full grown, and stepped out of her
cell as big and as beautiful as the bees could wish. And besides, she
knew how to command.
"Away with you!" she said. "We must have more honey for our use in the
winter, and you others must perspire more wax. I am thinking of
building a new wing to the hive. The new princesses shall live there
next year; it is very unsuitable for them to be so near common grubs."
"Heyday!" said the bees to one another. "One would think she had been
a queen ever since she lay in the egg."
"No," said the head bee-nurse; "that is not so. But she has had
_queenly thoughts_, and that is the great thing."
The Anemones
[Illustration: The Anemones]
"Peeweet! peeweet!" cried the plover, as he flew over the bog in the
wood. "My Lady Spring is coming! I can tell it from the feeling in my
legs and wings."
When the new grass that lay below in the earth heard that, it pushed
up at once and peeped out merrily from among the old yellow grass of
last year. For the grass is always in a great hurry.
The anemones in among the trees also heard the plover's cry; but they,
on the contrary, would not come up yet on any account.
"You must not believe the plover," they whispered to one another. "He
is a gay young spark who is not to be depended upon. He always comes
too early, and begins crying out at once. No, we will wait quietly
till the starlings and swallows come. They are sensible, steady-going
people who know what's what, and don't go sailing with half a wind."
And then the starlings came. They perched on the stumps in front of
their summer villa, and looked about them.
"Too early as usual," said Daddy Starling. "Not a green leaf and not a
fly to be seen, except an old tough one from last year, which isn't
worth opening one's bill for."
Mother Starling said nothing, but she did not seem any more enchanted
with the prospect.
"If we had only stayed in our cosy winter home down there beyond the
mountains," said Daddy Starling. He was angry at his wife's not
answering him, because he was so cold that he thought it might do him
good to have a little fun. "But it is _your_ fault, as it was last
year. You are always in such a dreadful hurry to come out to the
country."
"If I am in a hurry, I know the reason for it," said Mother Starling.
"And you ought to be ashamed of yourself if you didn't know it also,
since they are your eggs just as much as mine."
"What do you mean?" said Daddy Starling, much insulted. "When have I
neglected my family? Perhaps you even want me to sit in the cold and
sing to you?"
"Yes, I do," said Mother Starling in the tone he couldn't resist.
He began to pipe at once as well as he knew how. But Mother Starling
had no sooner heard the first notes than she gave him a flap with her
wings and snapped at him with her beak.
"Oh, please stop it!" she cried bitterly. "It sounds so sad that it
makes one quite heartsick. Instead of piping like that, get the
anemones to come up. I think it must be time for them. And besides,
one always feels warmer when there are others freezing besides
oneself."
Now as soon as the anemones had heard the first piping of the
starling, they cautiously stuck out their heads from the earth. But
they were so tightly wrapped up in green kerchiefs that one could not
get a glimpse of them. They looked like green shoots which might turn
into anything.
"It is too early," they whispered. "It is a shame of the starling to
entice us out. One can't rely on anything in the world nowadays."
Then the swallow came.
"Chee! chee!" he twittered, and shot through the air on his long,
tapering wings. "Out with you, you stupid flowers! Don't you see that
my Lady Spring has come?"
But the anemones had grown cautious. They only drew their green
kerchiefs a little apart and peeped out.
"One swallow does not make a summer," they said. "Where is your wife?
You have only come here to see if it is possible to stay here, and you
want to take us in. But we are not so stupid. We know very well that
if we once catch a bad cold we are done for, for this year at any
rate."
[Illustration: MY LADY SPRING]
"You are cowards," said the swallow, perching himself on the
forest-ranger's weathercock, and peering out over the landscape.
But the anemones waited still and shivered. A few of them who could
not control their impatience threw off their kerchiefs in the sun. The
cold at night nipped and killed them; and the story of their pitiful
death was passed on from flower to flower, and caused a great
consternation.
And then--one delightfully mild, still night--my Lady Spring came.
No one knows how she looks, because no one has ever seen her. But all
long for her, and thank her and bless her. She goes through the wood
and touches the flowers and trees, and at once they burst out. She
goes through the cattle-stalls and unties the beasts, and lets them
out on to the field. She goes straight into the hearts of men and
fills them with gladness. She makes it hard for the best boy to sit
still on his form at school, and she is the cause of a terrible
number of mistakes in the copy-books.
But she does not do all this at once. Night after night she plies her
task, and she comes first to him who longs for her most.
So it happened that on the very night of her coming she went straight
to the anemones, who stood in their green kerchiefs and didn't know
how to hold out any longer.
And one, two, three! there they stood in their newly-ironed white
collars, and looked so fresh and so pretty that the starlings sang
their prettiest songs out of sheer joy in them.
"Ah, how sweet it is here!" said the anemones. "How warm the sun is,
and how the birds sing! It is a thousand times better than last year."
But they said the same thing every year, so one needn't take any
account of it.
There were many others who were quite beside themselves when they saw
the anemones had come out. One was a schoolboy who wanted to have his
summer holidays at once; and another was the beech tree, who felt
exceedingly put out.
"Aren't you coming soon to me, my Lady Spring?" he said. "I am a much
more important person than those silly anemones, and I can't really
hold in my buds much longer."
"I am coming, I am coming," answered my Lady Spring. "But you must
give me a little time."
She went on her way through the wood, and at every step many and many
an anemone burst into flower. They stood in crowds round the roots of
the birch tree, and bashfully bowed their round heads to the earth.
"Look up," said my Lady Spring, "and rejoice in God's bright sunshine.
Your life is short, so you must enjoy it while you have it."
The anemones did as she told them. They stretched and strained, and
spread their white petals to all sides, to drink as much sunshine as
they could. They pushed their heads against one another, and twined
their stalks together, and laughed, and were immensely happy.
"Now I can wait no longer," said the beech, and he burst into leaf.
Leaf after leaf crept forth from its green sheath and waved in the
wind. The great tree made a green arch, like a mighty roof over the
earth.
"Dear me, is it already evening?" asked the anemones, who noticed that
it had grown quite dark.
"No; it is Death," said my Lady Spring. "Now _your_ time is over. It
happens to you just as it happens to all that is best on earth.
Everything in turn must spring to life, and bloom, and die."
"Die?" cried some little anemones. "Must we die already?"
And some of the big ones grew quite red in the face in their terror
and vexation.
"We know what it is," they said. "It is the beech that is the death of
us. He steals the sunshine for his own leaves, and does not allow us a
single ray. He is a mean, wicked thing."
They stood for some days, grumbling and crying. Then my Lady Spring
came for the last time through the wood. She had still the oak trees
and some other crusty old fellows to attend to.
"Lie down nicely in the earth and go to sleep," she said to the
anemones. "It is of no use to kick against the pricks. Next year I
will come back and waken you once more to life."
And some of the anemones did as she told them. But others still
stretched their heads into the air, and grew so ugly and stalky that
it was horrid to see them.
"Fie for shame!" they cried to the beech leaves. "It is you who are
killing us."
But the beech shook his long boughs and let his brown husks drop down
to the ground.
"Wait till the autumn, you little simpletons," he said, laughing.
"Then you shall see."
The anemones could not understand what he meant. But when they had
stretched themselves till they were as tall as they could be, they
broke off and withered.
* * * * *
The summer was over, and the farmer had carried his corn home from the
field.
The wood was still green, but it was a darker green than before; and
in many places red and yellow leaves glowed among the green ones. The
sun was tired after his hot work in the summer, and went early to bed.
At night Winter was stealing about among the trees to see if his time
was not soon coming. When he found a flower, he gallantly kissed it,
saying,--
"What! are you here still? I am charmed to meet you. Please stay where
you are. I am a good old man, and would not harm a cat."
But the flower shuddered at his kiss, and the transparent dewdrop that
hung from its petal froze to ice at the instant.
Again and again Winter ran through the wood. When he breathed on them,
the leaves turned yellow and the earth grew hard.
Even the anemones, who lay below in the earth waiting till my Lady
Spring should come back as she had promised, they too felt his breath
and shuddered down in their roots.
"Ugh! how cold it is!" they said to one another. "How shall we stand
the winter? We shall die for a certainty before it is over."
"Now it's _my_ time," said Winter. "Now I need no longer steal about
like a thief in the night. After to-day I shall look everybody in the
face, and bite their noses, and make their eyes run with water."
At night he let loose the storm. "Let me see you make a clean sweep,"
he said. And the storm obeyed his command. He went howling through the
wood, and shook the branches till they creaked and cracked. Any that
were rotten broke off, and those that held on had to turn and bow this
way and that.
"Away with that finery!" howled the storm as he tore off the leaves.
"This is not the time to dress yourself up. The snow will soon be
coming on to your branches; that will be quite another story."
All the leaves fell in terror to the earth, but the storm would not
let them rest. He seized them round the waist and waltzed with them
out over the field, high up into the air, and into the wood again,
swept them into great heaps, and then scattered them in all
directions--just as it pleased him.
Not till morning came did the storm grow weary and lie down to rest.
"Now you shall have peace for a time," he said. "I will take a rest
till we have the spring cleaning. Then we can have another turn
together--that is, if there are any of you left by then."
And the leaves lay down to rest, and spread themselves like a thick
carpet over the whole land.
The anemones felt that it had become pleasantly warm.
"Can it be my Lady Spring already?" they asked each other.
"I haven't got my buds ready," shouted one of them.
"Nor I! Nor I!" cried the others in one voice.
But one of them took courage and peeped out over the earth.
"Good-morning!" cried the withered beech leaves. "It is a little too
early, little lady. I hope you will be none the worse for it."
"Isn't it my Lady Spring?" inquired the anemone.
"Not yet," answered the beech leaves. "It is only the green beech
leaves that you were so angry with last summer. The green has gone
from us, so we have no great finery to boast of now. We have enjoyed
our youth and had our fling, I can tell you. And now we lie here and
protect all the little flowers in the earth against the winter."
"And meanwhile _I_ stand shivering in all my bare boughs," said the
beech peevishly.
The anemones talked it over one to another down below in the earth,
and thought it was grand.
"Those grand beech leaves!" they said.
"Mind you remember this next summer when I burst into leaf," said the
beech.
"We will! we will!" whispered the anemones.
But that sort of promise is easily made--and easily broken.
THE MIST
[Illustration: THE MIST]
The sun had just gone down.
The frog was croaking his "good-night," which lasted so long that
there seemed no end to it. The bee was creeping into its hive, and
little children were crying because they had to go to bed. The flower
was closing up its petals and bowing its head; the bird was tucking
its bill under its wing; and the stag was laying himself down to rest
in the tall, soft grass in the glade of the wood.
From the village church the bells were ringing for sunset, and when
that was over the old clerk went home. On his way he had a little chat
or two with the people who were out for an evening stroll, or were
standing before their gate and smoking a pipe till they bade him
good-night and shut the door.
Then it grew quite quiet, and the darkness fell. There was a light in
the parson's house, and there was one also in the doctor's. But the
farmers' houses were dark, because in summer-time the farmers get up
so early that they must go early to bed.
And then the stars began to twinkle, and the moon crept higher and
higher up the sky. Down in the village a dog was barking. But it must
have been barking in a dream, for there was nothing to bark at.
"Is there anybody there?" asked the mist.
But nobody answered, for nobody was there. So the mist issued forth in
her bright, airy robes. She went dancing over the meadows, up and
down, to and fro. Then she lay quite still for a moment, and then she
took to dancing again. Out over the lake she skipped and deep into the
wood, where she threw her long, damp arms round the trunks of the
trees.
"Who are you, my friend?" asked the night-violet,[A] who stood there
giving forth fragrance just to please herself.
[Footnote A: An inconspicuous flower which in Denmark is very fragrant
in the evening, the "night-smelling rocket" (_Hesperis tristis_).]
The mist did not answer, but went on dancing.
"I asked you who you were," said the night-violet. "And as you don't
answer me, I conclude that you are a rude person."
"I will now conclude _you_," said the mist. And then she spread
herself round the night-violet, so that her petals were dashed with
wet.
"Oh, oh!" cried the night-violet. "Keep your fingers to yourself, my
friend. I have a feeling as if I had been dipped in the pond. You have
no reason for getting so angry just because I asked you who you are."
The mist let go of her again.
"Who am I?" she said. "You could not understand even if I told you."
"Try," said the night-violet.
"I am the dewdrop on the flower, the cloud in the sky, and the mist on
the meadow," said the mist.
"I beg your pardon," said the night-violet. "Would you mind saying
that again? The dewdrop I know. It settles every morning on my leaves,
and I don't think it is at all like you."
"No; but it is I all the same," said the mist mournfully. "But no one
knows me. I must live my life under many shapes. One time I am dew,
and another time I am rain; and yet another time I babble as a clear,
cool streamlet through the wood. But when I dance on the meadows in
the evening, men say that it is the marsh-lady brewing."
"It is a strange story," said the night-violet. "Do you mind telling
it to me? The night is long, and I sometimes get a little bored by
it."'
"It is a sad story," answered the mist. "But you may have it and
welcome."
But when she was about to lie down the night-violet shook with terror
in all her petals.
"Be so kind as to keep at a little distance," she said, "at least till
you have properly introduced yourself. I have never cared to be on
familiar terms with people I don't know."
So the mist lay down a little way off and began her story:--
"I was born deep down in the earth--far deeper than your roots go.
There I and my sisters--for we are a large family, you must
understand--came into the world as waves of a hidden spring, pure and
clear as crystal; and for a long time we had to stay in our
hiding-place. But one day we suddenly leapt from a hillside into the
full light of the sun. You can well imagine how delightful it was to
come tumbling down through the wood. We hopped over stones and rippled
against the bank. Pretty little fishes gambolled amongst us, and the
trees bent over so that their beautiful green was reflected in our
waters. If a leaf fell, we cradled it and fondled it and carried it
out with us into the wide world. Ah, that was delightful! It was
indeed the happiest time of my life."
"But when are you going to tell me how you came to turn into mist?"
asked the night-violet impatiently. "I know all about the underground
spring. When the air is quite still, I can hear it murmur from where
I stand."
The mist lifted herself a little and took a turn round the meadow.
Then she came back, and went on with her story:--
"It is the worst of this world that one is never contented with what
one has. So it was with us. We kept running on and on, till at last we
ran into a great lake, where water-lilies rocked on the water and
dragon-flies hummed on their great stiff wings. Up on the surface the
lake was clear as a mirror. But whether we wished it or not, we had to
run right down by the bottom, where it was dark and gruesome. And this
I could not endure. I longed for the sunbeams. I knew them so well
from the time I used to run in the brook. There they used to peep down
through the leaves and pass over me in fleeting gleams. I longed so
much to see them again that I stole up to the surface, and lay down in
the sunshine all amongst the white water-lilies and their great green
leaves. But, ugh! how the sun burnt me there on the lake! It was
scarcely bearable. Bitterly did I regret that I had not stopped down
below."
[Illustration: THE EVENING HOUR]
"I can't say this part of your story is very amusing," said the
night-violet. "Isn't the mist soon coming?"
"Here it is!" said the mist, and dropped down once more on the flower,
so that it nearly had the breath squeezed out of it.
"Ough! ough!" shrieked the night-violet. "Upon my word, you are the
most ill-natured person I have ever known. Move off, and go on with
your story, since it must be so."
"In the evening, when the sun had set, I suddenly became wonderfully
light," said the mist. "I don't know how it came about, but I thought
I could rise up from the lake and fly; and before I knew anything
about it, I was drifting over the water, far away from the
dragon-flies and the water-lilies. The evening breeze bore me away. I
flew high up into the air, and there I met many of my sisters, who had
been just as eager for novelty as myself, and had had the same fate.
We drifted across the sky, for, you see, we had become clouds."
"I am not sure I do see," said the night-violet. "The thing sounds
incredible."
"But it is true all the same," answered the mist. "And let me tell
you what happened then. The wind carried us for a long way through
the air. But all at once it would not do so any more, and let us
drop. Down we fell on to the earth as a splashing shower of rain.
The flowers all shut up in a hurry, and the birds crept under
cover--except, of course, the ducks and the geese, for, you know, the
wetter it is the more they like it. Yes--and the farmer too! He wanted
rain so much for his crops, he stood there hugely delighted, and did
not in the least mind getting wet. But otherwise we really did make
quite a sensation."
"Oh! so you are the rain as well?" said the night-violet. "I must say
you have plenty to do."
"Yes, I'm never idle," said the mist.
"All the same, I have not yet heard how you became mist," said the
night-violet. "Only, _please_ don't get into a passion again. You know
you promised to tell me without my asking you, and I would sooner
hear the whole story over again than shiver once more in your horrid,
clammy arms."
The mist lay silent and sobbed for a few moments. Then she went on
with her story:--
"After I had fallen on the earth as rain, I sank down into the black
soil, and was already congratulating myself on soon getting back to my
birthplace, the deep underground spring. There, at any rate, one
enjoyed peace and had no cares. But, as I was sinking into the ground,
the tree roots sucked me up, and I had to wander about for a whole day
in the boughs and leaves. They treated me as a beast of burden, I
assure you. All the food that the leaves and flowers needed I had to
carry up to them from the roots. It was not till the evening that I
managed to get away. When the sun had gone down the flowers and trees
all heaved a deep sigh, and I and my sisters flew off in that sigh in
the form of bright airy mists. To-night we dance on the meadow. But
when the sun rises in the morning we shall turn into those pretty
transparent dewdrops which hang from your petals. When you shake us
off we shall sink deeper and deeper till we reach the spring we came
from--that is, if some root or other does not snap us up on the way.
And so the journey goes on. Down the brook, out into the lake, up into
the air, down again to the earth--"
"Stop!" said the night-violet. "If I listen to you any more, I shall
become quite sea-sick."
Now the frog began to stir. He stretched his legs, and went down to
the ditch to take his morning bath. The birds began to twitter in the
wood, and the bellow of the stag echoed amongst the trees. It was on
the point of dawn, and here came the sun peeping up over the hill.
"Hullo, what is that?" he said. "What a strange sight! One can't see
one's hand before one's face. Wind of the morning! up with you, you
sluggard, and drive the foul mists away."
The morning wind came over the meadow, and away went the mists. And at
the very same moment the first rays of the sun fell right on the
night-violet.
"Heyday!" said the flower. "We have got the sun already, so I had
better make haste and shut up. Where in the world has the mist gone
to?"
"I am still here," said the dewdrop that hung on its stalk.
But the night-violet shook herself peevishly. "You may stuff up
children with that nonsense," she said. "As for me, I don't believe a
word of your whole story. It is as weak as water."
Then the sun laughed and said, "You are quite right _there_!"
THE BEECH AND THE OAK
[Illustration: THE BEECH AND THE OAK]
It all happened long, long ago. There were no towns then with houses
and streets, and church steeples domineering over everything. There
were no schools, for there were not many boys, and those that there
were learnt from their father to shoot with the bow and arrow, to hunt
the stag in his covert, to kill the bear in order to make clothes out
of his skin, and to rub two pieces of wood together till they caught
fire. When they knew this perfectly, they had finished their
education. There were no railways either, and no cultivated fields, no
ships on the sea, no books, for there was nobody who could read them.
There was scarcely anything except trees. But trees there were in
plenty. They stood everywhere from coast to coast; they saw themselves
reflected in all the rivers and lakes, and stretched their mighty
boughs up towards heaven. They leaned out over the shore, dipped their
boughs in the black fen water, and from the high hills looked out
proudly over the land.
They all knew each other, for they belonged to a great family, and
were proud of it.
"We are all _oak_ trees," they said. "We own the land, and rule over
it."
And they were right. There were only a few human beings there in those
days, and those that there were were nothing better than wild animals.
The bear, the wolf, and the fox went out hunting, while the stag
grazed by the edge of the fen. The field-mouse sat outside his hole
and ate acorns, and the beaver built his artistic houses by the river
banks.
One day the bear came trudging along and lay down at full breadth
under a great oak tree.
"Are you there again, you robber?" said the oak, and shook a lot of
withered leaves down over him.
"You should not squander your leaves, my old friend," said the bear,
licking his paws. "That is all the shade you can give against the
sun."
"If you are not pleased with me, you can go," answered the oak
proudly. "I am lord in the land, and whatever way you look you find my
brothers and nothing else."
"True," muttered the bear. "That is just what is so sickening. I have
been for a little tour abroad, I may tell you, and am just a little
bit spoilt. It was in a land down towards the south--there I took a
nap under the beech trees. They are tall, slim trees, not crooked old
things like you. And their tops are so dense that the sunbeams cannot
creep through them. It was a real pleasure there to take a midday nap,
I assure you."
"Beech trees?" said the oak inquisitively. "What are they?"
"You might well wish you were half as pretty as a beech tree," said
the bear. "But I don't want to chatter any more with you just now. I
have had to trot a mile on account of a confounded hunter who struck
me on one of my hind legs with an arrow. Now I should like to have a
sleep, and perhaps you will be kind enough to leave me at peace, since
you cannot give me shade."
The bear stretched himself out and closed his eyes; but he got no
sleep _that_ time, for the other trees had heard his story, and they
began chattering and talking and rustling their leaves in a way never
known in the wood before.
"What on earth can those trees be?" said one of them.
"It is, of course, a mere story; the bear wishes to impose upon us,"
said the other.
"What kind of trees can they be whose leaves sit so close together
that the sunbeams cannot creep between them?" asked a little oak, who
was listening to what the big ones were talking about.
But by his side stood an old gnarled tree, who gave the little oak a
clout on the head with one of his lowest boughs.
"Hold your tongue," he said, "and don't talk till you have something
to talk about. You need none of you believe a word of the bear's
nonsense. I am much taller than you, and I can see far out over the
wood. But so far as ever I can see, there is nothing but oak trees."
The little oak was shamefaced, and held his tongue; and the other big
trees spoke to one another in low whispers, for they had great respect
for the old one.
But the bear got up and rubbed his eyes. "Now you have disturbed my
midday nap," he growled angrily, "and I declare that I will have my
revenge. When I come back I will bring some beech nuts with me, and I
vow you will all turn yellow with jealousy when you see how pretty the
new trees are."
Then he made off. But the oaks talked the whole day long one to
another about the funny trees he had told them about.
"If they come, I will kill them," said the little oak tree, but
directly afterwards he got one on the head from the old oak.
"If they come, you shall treat them politely, you young dog," said he.
"But they will not come."
* * * * *
But in this the old oak was wrong, for they did come.
Towards autumn the bear came back and lay down under the old oak.
"My friends down there wish me to present their compliments," he said,
and he picked some funny things out of his shaggy coat. "Here you may
see what I have for you."
"What is it?" asked the oak.
"That is _beech_," answered the bear--"the beech nuts which I promised
you."
Then he trampled them into the ground and prepared to go back.
"It is a pity I cannot stay and see how angry you will be," he
growled, "but those confounded human beings have begun to press one so
hard. The day before yesterday they killed my wife and one of my
brothers, and I must see about finding a place where I can live in
peace. There is scarcely a spot left where a self-respecting bear can
stay. Good-bye, you old, gnarled oak trees!"
When the bear had shambled off, the trees looked at one another
anxiously.
"Let us see what comes of it," said the old oak.
And after this they composed themselves to rest. The winter came and
tore all their leaves off them, the snow lay high over the whole land,
and every tree stood deep in his own thoughts and dreamt of the
spring.
And when the spring came the grass stood green, and the birds began
singing where they left off last. The flowers came up in multitudes
from the earth, and everything looked fresh and gay.
The oak trees alone stood with leafless boughs.
"It is the most dignified thing to come last!" they said one to
another. "The kings of the wood do not come till the whole company is
assembled."
But at last they came. All the leaves burst forth from the swollen
buds, and the trees looked at one another and complimented one
another on their beauty. The little oak had grown ever so much. He was
very proud of it, and he thought that he had now the right to join in
the conversation.
"Nothing has come yet of the bear's beech trees," he said jeeringly,
at the same time glancing anxiously up at the old oak, who used to
give him one on the head.
The old oak heard what he said very plainly, and the other trees also;
but they said nothing. Not one of them had forgotten what the bear had
told them, and every morning when the sun came out they peeped down to
look for the beeches. They were really a little uneasy, but they were
too proud to talk about it.