PRINCE GRAY OWL
Forth he set in the breezy morn,
Across green fields of nodding corn,
As goodly a Prince as ever was born.
--_Christina Rossetti._
Where every wind and leaf can talk,
But no man understand
Save one whose child-feet chanced to walk
Green paths of fairyland.
--_Sophie Jewett._
“THE children are late,” said Miss Ruth to Sarah who, soon after
three o’clock the next Friday afternoon, came into the library with
a large plate piled high with ginger cookies cut into shapes of
animals,--horses, cats, dogs, giraffes, and elephants.
“Like as not they have given up wantin’ to have a club,” snapped Sarah,
shutting her mouth as if she had bitten off the words. “Children
nowadays are spoilt with havin’ such a lot done for ’em.” Sarah looked
disappointed, however; she had spent a long time in making those
cookies.
Sarah Judd was the only servant in the Warren household, and she had
lived in the family a long time. Whenever Ruth Warren said anything to
her about having a younger woman to help, Sarah always shook her head
until the corkscrew side-curls fairly bobbed up and down and answered:
“No, madam: if you have anybody else come to work for you, I go!” As
old Sarah understood perfectly the ways and wishes of Miss Virginia
Warren, Ruth’s aunt, Ruth kept the cross-spoken servant, who was in
reality a kind-hearted woman.
Ruth Warren had learned the wisdom of silence when Sarah made scolding
remarks; so now she kept on cutting out dresses for the rows and
rows of dolls,--big and little dolls, blond-haired and black-haired,
waxen-headed and china-headed, blue-eyed, gray-eyed, black-eyed,--two
of each kind and twenty-four in all, lying there on the centre-table.
Sarah lingered in the room, brushing a little dust from the table with
the corner of her white apron. “What a handsome lot of doll-babies,”
she said after a moment; “I hope the children will come. I thought
at first that havin’ ’em come would make an awful sight of dust an’
crumbs; but I can sweep Saturday mornin’s instead of Fridays, an’ it’s
kinder nice to hear children ’round, a-talkin’ an’ a-laughin’, as fast
as a sewin’-machine. Bless my heart, here they come now, a-hurryin’
along!” Sarah dodged behind the curtain and looked out over the tops
of her spectacles. “Ain’t they cunnin’ little things!” she exclaimed,
“comin’ along with their arms twined ’round one another, an’ that
lively Betty White in the middle!”
As Sarah turned from behind the window-curtain to answer the quick
ring of the front door-bell, she said anxiously: “If they eat all the
animals in the plate, I have got some more plain cookies they can have.”
A moment later Sarah led the three girls into the library, her
side-curls bobbing with excitement.
“O, look at those cookies!” cried Betty, after she had greeted Miss
Ruth. “Good old Sarah must have made them.” And Sarah vanished from the
doorway with a smile which made her thin, dry face seem suddenly to
have cracked.
“I’m dreadfully sorry we are late, Miss Ruth,” Betty cried out,
excitedly--Betty was almost always the first to begin talking. “It is
all my fault--I had to stay after school, and Elsa and Alice waited for
me.” Betty stopped for breath, fanning herself with the skirt of her
blue and green plaid gown.
“We wanted to wait,” said Alice with a shy, half-look at Miss Ruth,
then turning quickly to examine the piles of dolls again, with Elsa.
“I got zero in arithmetic,” Betty rattled on again, “and I didn’t read
well, and I got caught whispering, so I had to eat three little bitter
blossoms and stay fifteen minutes after school. I wish there wasn’t any
school,” she added, with a toss of her brown hair.
“So do I,” agreed Elsa, promptly, but Alice looked a little shocked.
“Help yourselves to the cookies, girls; Sarah made them especially for
you,” said Miss Ruth, seeing Betty’s and Elsa’s eyes fixed upon the
gingerbread animals.
“I shouldn’t care if I didn’t know anything, if I could have people
read to me and tell me stories,” said Betty, biting off the trunk of an
elephant cookie.
“O, Miss Ruth, you said you would tell us a story!” exclaimed Elsa,
eagerly.
“Yes,--a story about a doll and an old lady,” cried Betty, forgetting
her school troubles.
“Wasn’t it strange for an old lady to have a doll?” said Alice, her
blue eyes very serious.
“Strange perhaps, but true,” replied Miss Ruth, who had taken the tongs
and was stirring the fire into a splendid blaze. “Which would you
rather have,--that story, or one about a ‘Prince Gray Owl?’”
“Both,” answered Betty, “but the gray owl story first.”
“The doll story first, please,” begged Elsa. The fire lighted up the
golden-brown of Miss Ruth’s gown, and its brown fur trimming; Elsa
decided that the fur just matched the colour of Miss Ruth’s eyes.
“I should like either story first,--only both please,” said Alice
slowly, between bites at a long-necked giraffe.
“Which one can you tell easiest, Miss Ruth?” Elsa suddenly remembered
to ask.
“I could tell the fairy story more easily to-day, perhaps, because I
told it only yesterday to my little niece who was visiting me. The old
lady’s doll story actually happened, so that I remember it better.”
“Then the fairy story first, please,” Elsa said, contentedly. She had
one of the little dolls in her arms.
“Didn’t the fairy story really happen, too?” Alice asked quickly. She
had chosen from among the dolls a blue-eyed, yellow-haired one that
looked very much like herself.
“What a silly question, Baby Alice,” cried Betty. “Of course fairy
stories aren’t true.”
“What makes you like fairy stories, Betty, if they are not true?” Elsa
asked, seeing that Alice looked hurt.
“Because fairies are so dear and kind that it makes you wish they were
true,” Betty replied.
“Fairy stories were true in the once-upon-a-time days,” said Miss Ruth,
to end the discussion; “that is, people believed in fairies,” she added.
“Are these the dresses for us to make, all pinned on to the dolls, Miss
Ruth?” Elsa asked. “We’ve talked so much about other things that we
haven’t said hardly anything about the dolls.”
“It’s nice to have their underclothes all made,” said Betty, “because
it saves so much of our time.” Betty had finally taken one of the
largest dolls to dress.
“Do you each want to dress first the one you have chosen?” asked Miss
Ruth.
“Yes!” “Yes!” was the quick chorus.
“Then you may begin now, and I will sew, too,” said Miss Ruth, seating
herself by the table. “Here is a thimble for each of you, and in this
big work-basket you will find needles and sewing cotton and scissors.
Help yourselves to the cookies: and you need not be extra careful about
crumbs, because Sarah is going to sweep the library to-morrow morning.”
The three girls grouped themselves near the table and threaded their
needles.
“Please begin,” Betty whispered, just as Miss Ruth was asking of Alice:
“Is Ben coming to the Club?”
“He wanted to, he told me,” said Alice, “but the other boys teased him
to go skating, ’cause Morse’s Pond is frozen over.”
Betty tossed her head: “I knew he didn’t want to belong.”
“He told me he did,” said Elsa, who, being sensitive herself, usually
knew when Alice’s feelings were hurt. Elsa’s eyes were shining with
pleasure: it was only half-past three o’clock, there was an hour and
a half of enjoyment ahead, with dolls’ dresses all ready to make,
ginger cookies to eat, and a fairy story to hear. The bright wood-fire
sparkling and crackling added to the cheer. Her eyes were dark like
purple pansies as she raised them, expectantly, to Miss Ruth.
“Now that we are all ready,” said Miss Ruth, “I will begin. _Prince
Gray Owl_ is the name of the story.”
“Was the Gray Owl really a prince?” asked Alice.
“Hush!” said Betty.
* * * * *
Once upon a time,--began Miss Ruth,--there was a beautiful princess who
lived in a great gray castle with her uncle. The castle and the kingdom
belonged to the princess, but as the king, her father, and the queen,
her mother, were dead, her uncle ruled over the kingdom.
Princess Katrina was only ten years old when her father and mother
died. As the years went on, her uncle liked better and better to be
king, and did not want to give up the position. But he knew that when
Princess Katrina married, he could no longer be king, because her
husband would become the ruler. Many a brave young prince wanted to
marry the princess, whose great beauty and cheerful heart were famed
throughout the world. But the uncle said “No” to each one of these
suitors, and ordered them never to come into the kingdom again on
penalty of having their heads cut off.
Princess Katrina was now nineteen years old. Her uncle knew that if
she were not married before she was twenty-one, she could then choose
a husband for herself. So he arranged to have her marry, not a prince,
but a wicked old king, ruler of a far-off country, two days’ journey
beyond the sunset. The uncle agreed to give this bad man a large sum
of gold with the princess, and in return, the uncle was to keep the
kingdom. For the far-away king wanted gold more than he did land.
Early one September morning Katrina’s uncle came to the sunshiny
bower where she sat alone, embroidering a beautiful scarlet-and-gold
tapestry. The princess made a beautiful picture, there in the sunshine,
with her soft hair shining like spun gold, her clear blue eyes, and
her fair cheeks tinged with rose colour. She looked a royal princess
indeed, in her blue velvet gown, with a long scarf of light blue gauze
floating over her shoulders.
“Good morning, Uncle Wulfred,” said the princess. She was not very fond
of her uncle, but she always greeted him kindly.
The wicked uncle had a crafty and cruel face. The jewelled gold crown
came almost down to the ears of his small, round head, and the kingly,
ermine-trimmed green velvet robe hung loosely from his short, stooping
figure.
“Princess niece,” said the uncle, without any “Good morning” greeting,
“you are now over nineteen years old and it is time you were married,
so I have chosen a husband for you. King Rupert from the land two days’
journey beyond the sunset is coming at the end of a month to marry you.”
Princess Katrina’s happy, beautiful face turned very pale. “Do you mean
that cross, unkind old king who visited you a six-month ago and who one
day at banquet broke the neck of a poor, faithful hound who offended
him? Nay, Uncle Wulfred, I will not marry such a man.”
“I say you shall marry him,” stormed the uncle, walking up and down the
room with jingling spurs.
“Never! I will die first!” cried the princess. Rising suddenly in front
of her uncle, she faced him with white cheeks and flashing eyes. The
scarlet-and-gold tapestry fell from her hands to the floor.
“You shall marry King Rupert, or die!” the uncle shouted; his
small eyes snapped angrily, his face grew purple, and he brought
his steel-gloved hand down upon the table so heavily that the
embroidery bodkins and scissors rolled off, clattering, to the
floor. “This-very-morning,” he said so fast that the words almost
tumbled over each other, “I-will-shut-you-up-in-the-East-Tower.
At-the-end-of-a-week-I-will-come-to-ask-if-you-will-marry-King-Rupert.
If-you-refuse-to-mind-me,
I-will-put-you-where-you-will-have-a-harder-time, the-second-week.”
When her uncle stopped, purple in the face, to take breath, Princess
Katrina answered him scornfully and without fear: “You are a wicked
uncle. It is because you want to keep my kingdom that you are trying to
make me marry that cruel old king, who lives far away.”
At these words, the uncle grew more angry than ever, because they were
the truth. He stamped heavily with his right foot three times upon the
stone floor.
Instantly three tall men in black robes, with black masks over their
faces, rushed into Katrina’s bower. One of the men pushed back from
the doorway Katrina’s old nurse who lived with the princess now as
serving-woman. Quickly throwing a part of his black robe over the head
of the gray-haired woman, the man led her away.
“Make the princess a prisoner!” commanded the uncle, pointing with his
sword at Katrina, who did not move or even cry out.
The two men in black seized Katrina roughly by the shoulders.
“Take this disobedient girl to the East Tower!” roared the angry uncle.
Katrina did not speak, but her blue eyes gleamed proudly as the guards
led her away.
The East Tower was an old, unused part of the castle, a long distance
from the part where the royal household lived. To reach the tower, the
guards led Katrina through many rooms hung with spiders’ webs, over
broken stone floors, and along dark passage-ways where rats scuttled.
* * * * *
“I am glad I wasn’t Katrina to have to go where there were rats!”
exclaimed Alice.
“Don’t interrupt, Peggy!” cried Betty.
Miss Ruth smiled, and continued:
* * * * *
The old East Tower of the castle was almost forgotten. No one ever
went there. Tall trees and bushes grew up around it, and a deep moat
surrounded it.
* * * * *
“What is a moat?” asked Betty.
“A deep hollow, like a trench or a wide ditch, filled with water,”
explained Miss Ruth, and Alice whispered--but very sweet-temperedly--to
Betty: “Who’s interrupting now?” as Miss Ruth began again:
* * * * *
The land beyond the East Tower, across the moat, belonged to a
neighbouring king, who had been away at war for many years. No lonelier
place than the tower could have been found for a prison.
“A safe place for the girl,” said the false king to his wicked
counsellors when they came back and told him they had locked Princess
Katrina into the upper room of the tower.
“But suppose she dies there?” said one of the counsellors, who had a
daughter at home, of about Katrina’s age.
“If she dies, no one will be the wiser, and you will be rich men,” said
the king. “Be sure you keep the old nurse drugged, and a guard to watch
her.”
After that, when the royal ladies of the court asked King Wulfred where
the princess was, he told them she had been suddenly called away by the
illness of her aunt in another kingdom, and that the old nurse had gone
with the princess.
Katrina was very lonely and sad the first few days in the round upper
room of the old stone tower. Three times each day the strong door
was unlocked and food and candles were set into the room. The man who
brought the food and the three candles would not say a word in answer
to Katrina’s questions. In the daytime, the princess walked around
the room, looking from one after another of the three windows at the
trees outside. When night came, she put all three of her candles at the
window where the leaves of the trees seemed thinnest, hoping that some
one passing might see the light, and wonder at its being there in the
old, deserted tower, and so come to her rescue.
On the third day, the princess saw the bright eyes of a gray squirrel
looking in at the window; she put some food upon the window-sill, and
presently the squirrel came in through the iron bars, ate the food,
then sat up on his haunches and looked at her quite fearlessly.
“I would help you if I could,” said the gray squirrel, unexpectedly,
“but all I can do is to give you my company.”
Katrina was greatly surprised to hear the squirrel speak, but she
answered quickly: “If you will talk with me sometimes that will help
me, for I am so lonely.”
“I will come every day,” he replied. “Now I must go home to arrange my
engagements.” Straightening out his splendid bushy tail, he jumped from
the window-sill into the thick leaves of an oak-tree, out of sight,
like a flash.
After that, the gray squirrel came every day at exactly the same time.
He sat on Katrina’s shoulder and chattered about his busy life in the
great forest; and in turn Katrina told him about her being shut up in
the tower by her cruel uncle.
“I would help you if I could,” said the squirrel one day, growing so
angry over her imprisonment that he tried to bite the iron bars of the
window, and in doing so, broke off two of his best front teeth. From
that time, Princess Katrina gave him more of her food, because he could
not crack nuts so well now. “Elf will mend my teeth some day, elf will
mend them,” said the squirrel cheerfully.
On the afternoon of the seventh day, the cruel uncle unlocked the door
of the tower-room and stood before the princess. He was covered with
dust and cobwebs from coming through the unused rooms and dark passages
which led to the tower.
“Is my dear niece ready to obey me and marry King Rupert?” the uncle
asked in a make-believe anxious voice.
Princess Katrina held up her head courageously. “Never!” she said: “I
will never consent to marry that dreadful old man.” Her golden hair
gleamed like sunshine against the dark gray stone walls.
She was so brave and fair standing there in her royal blue velvet gown,
facing him, that her uncle was half afraid. “It is for your good,” he
said in a shaking voice, the keys jingling in his hand.
Katrina answered him quickly: “It is for your gain.”
Then the uncle cried out fast, with blazing eyes:
“This-next-week-you-shall-live-in-the-lower-room-and-have-food-only-
twice-a-day-and-only-two-candles-for-the-night.
At-the-end-of-a-week-I-will-visit-you-and-if-you-refuse-to-marry-
King-Rupert-I-will-put-you-where-you-have-a-harder-time.” Seizing her
wrist, he dragged her roughly behind him through the door and down the
narrow, winding stone steps to the room below, thrust her into it, and
locked the creaking, heavy door upon her.
That night Princess Katrina was dreadfully afraid. A wild storm of
wind and rain shook the tower and made her candle-light flicker. Once
when something gray brushed against the window she shrieked aloud;
but, watching, she saw that the gray object stopped on a branch of
the great oak-tree outside the window, and that it was a large,
soft owl, as tall as a man. The owl sat there a long time, staring
at the candle-light with blinking yellow eyes that had tiny black
spots at their centre, and the princess was comforted by the sense of
companionship.
The next morning when the food and candles were brought, a package was
put with them, inside the door.
Katrina hurriedly unwrapped the package and was overjoyed to find in
it her scarlet-and-gold tapestry, her bodkins, her skeins of scarlet
and gold embroidery silk, and a little paper cleverly sewed on the
very place where she had stopped her work the morning when her uncle
came into her bower. On the paper was written, in her old nurse’s
handwriting: “The counsellors kept me drugged for a week, then they
told me you had gone away. I did not believe them, and I bribed the
guard, with all the gold I had, to tell me where you are and to takes
these things to you. Keep a good heart. I go away from the castle to
help you.”
When the gray squirrel came, early that afternoon, Katrina told him
what had happened and asked him what he thought.
The gray squirrel sat up very still and looked at the princess out
of his round black eyes: “The gray owl will rescue you,” said the
squirrel at last, solemnly.
“Who told you so?” asked the princess.
“I heard the bluejays talking about it this morning,” he said, winking
his eyes rapidly.
“Who told the bluejays?” Katrina inquired.
“They are great gossips: they hear things by listening at the front
doors of the other birds’ homes.” The squirrel looked so fierce all at
once that the princess asked quickly: “Do you know the gray owl?” and
before the squirrel could answer, began telling him about the gray owl
she had seen outside her window the night before. “Do you know him?”
she asked again.
“I know some gray owls,--I am sorry to say,” replied the squirrel,
shaking his tail.
The princess opened her blue eyes very wide as she asked, “Why are you
sorry?”
“Squirrels and owls cannot be friendly,” said the gray squirrel rather
sadly.
“Why?” asked the princess.
“Because it has always been so,” he answered, whisking his tail
excitedly and jumping out of the window so that the princess could not
ask him any more questions.
That afternoon as Katrina began embroidering once more upon her
scarlet-and-gold tapestry, her thoughts were even busier than her
fingers. What did her nurse mean by writing that puzzling sentence:
“I go away from the castle to help you?” Over and over again, Katrina
turned these words in her mind. But she felt comforted and hopeful.
When darkness fell, the princess put her two candles at the window,
and said to herself: “Perhaps the gray owl will come again to the
oak-tree.” For a long time she waited with her tender face pressed
against the iron bars. By and by she heard a soft whirr-r of wings, and
the gray owl settled upon a branch below the window.
Katrina looked eagerly into the round, blinking eyes: “I wish you could
speak,” she said, half-aloud.
The gray owl stepped so near the light that the little black line
almost faded out of his yellow eyes. Katrina was surprised at the owl’s
great size, and even more surprised to hear a muffled voice say: “Keep
a good heart. I will save you.” Then the owl spread its soft wings and
flew noiselessly away.
It was soon after that the princess heard a faint, regular sound, as
of iron striking against stone; and the sound lasted all night,--as
long as she stayed awake, which was a long time, for she kept asking
herself over and over again: “Will the gray owl really save me from
this dungeon?” The squirrel had said the owl would do this, and now the
owl himself said so.
In the days of Princess Katrina, the world of mankind had not moved
very far away from fairyland. The princess was not half so much
astonished to hear a squirrel and an owl speak as a princess would be
to-day. Katrina’s old nurse had told her many a tale of wonder; the
nurse had that very day sent the message, “Keep a good heart;” and
the gray owl had repeated the same words, “Keep a good heart.” By and
by Katrina fell asleep, still puzzled, but happy in having such good
friends as the nurse, the squirrel and the owl.
The next morning, when the squirrel came as usual, Katrina asked his
opinion about the owl and the strange noise; but all the squirrel would
say was: “Owls are very strong. Owls have sharp, strong beaks.” Then
he whisked away, as if in haste. So Katrina stopped talking to the
squirrel about the owl after that, for the subject seemed to offend him.
Every night, regularly, when darkness fell, Katrina heard the faint
pick! pick! of iron upon stone, and every night, as she leaned against
the window-bars, after the pick! pick! began, she heard the muffled
words, “Keep a good heart!” She did not always see the owl, but on
those nights she thought the owl must have perched upon a branch much
lower than her window, for, straining her eyes, she could see a gray
shape below.
When the end of the second week came, Katrina wound the scarlet and
gold tapestry around her slender body, under her blue velvet gown, so
that her uncle should not see it. All day long she waited for him, but
he did not come until dusk. The key turned slowly in the rusty lock.
Her uncle stood before her.
“Girl! Katrina!” he shouted, for he was frightened by her white face.
“Have you come to your senses? Are you ready to marry King Rupert?”
“Never! I will never marry King Rupert,” Katrina answered,
looking at her uncle with flashing blue eyes so like those of
his dead brother, her father, that the uncle swore a terrible
oath to keep up his courage, and said very fast, though
his teeth chattered: “Down--to--the--dungeon--with--you!
Food--only--once--a--day. One--small--candle--for--the--night.
Be--ready--to--marry--King--Rupert--at--the--end--of--a--week--
or--you--will--have--a--harder--time.”
With trembling hands the coward uncle put a key into a keyhole in the
floor, raised a trap-door by an iron ring, and pushed Katrina down the
dark stairs. She lifted her white face bravely and said: “Never will I
do your bidding;” then the trap-door closed over her head.
Down into the darkness the beautiful princess felt her way. After a
few moments she could see, by the dim light that came in from the one
window, a rough wooden bench, a stool, and a pile of dry leaves in one
corner. Outside the window, the oak leaves were very thick. Katrina
reached through the iron bars and broke the leaves from the nearest
branches. The strong stems hurt her hands, but she gained a little more
light and air.
Before the dim twilight faded away, brave Katrina stirred the dry
leaves on the stone floor and found to her great comfort that there
were no creeping things underneath. After putting her scarlet-and-gold
tapestry over the leaves to make a bed for herself, she lighted her one
candle, and placing it upon the wooden bench before the window, sat
down beside it. Darkness had hardly fallen before she heard the pick!
pick! as of iron upon stone, and lo! the sounds seemed close at her
side.
Suppose the sounds were some plan of her uncle’s to frighten her? For a
moment Katrina’s courage sank at the thought. But just then she heard a
muffled voice ask: “Are you there, Princess?”
“Yes,” she answered faintly. “Who are you?” The dungeon walls were
thicker than the walls above; Katrina could only press so near the
window as to see a gray figure outside.
“Your friend, the Gray Owl,” said the low voice. “We must not talk
much, for fear some one hear us. But keep a good heart.”
Each day of that third week the princess worked a little while with the
shining gold silk upon the tapestry; it was so dark in the dungeon that
she could not see, even at noonday, to use the scarlet silk. She felt
very faint, because she had only one meal a day, of bread and water,
and she gave some of the bread to her daily visitor, the squirrel, who
grew very thin without his usual nuts. She begged him every day to go
to the elf and have his teeth mended, but he always answered: “It is a
long way, and I will not go until you are saved.”
On the fifth night of that week when the pick! pick! as of iron upon
stone began, the princess went to the window and whispered sadly: “I
cannot keep heart much longer,” and the low, muffled voice of the gray
owl answered: “Courage! keep a good heart for one day more.”
Upon the sixth day there was a dark tempest. Even at high noon the
dungeon was dark. The gray squirrel looked wet and discouraged when he
sprang in through the window at the usual time.
“Do you think the gray owl is going to save me?” asked the princess in
her despair.
At the mention of the gray owl, the squirrel jumped for the window, but
it was so dark in the dungeon that he bumped into the wall and fell
upon the stone floor.
He held up a hurt front paw as Katrina ran to him. “Will you bind it
with silk for me?” he asked. “Elf will mend it when I go to him, elf
will mend it. But I shall have to stay with you now, because I cannot
jump--nor even walk,” he said, trying to rise but falling over again.
Katrina bound the wounded paw tenderly. All that afternoon the squirrel
seemed to be thinking deeply, and Katrina could not make him talk.
Utter darkness fell early. The dungeon grew very cold, so that both
Katrina and the squirrel shivered. She wrapped herself in the scarlet
and gold tapestry, took the squirrel in her hands, and crouched near
the window.
Soon came a stir in the leaves outside. “Are you there, Princess?”
asked the muffled voice. Katrina felt the squirrel begin to tremble
violently.
“Yes, Gray Owl,” she answered, waiting for him to say, “Keep a good
heart.” But instead, he said: “Prepare to leave the dungeon, Princess.
Stand away from the window, for soon a large stone of the wall will
fall into the dungeon.”
Katrina moved to the opposite side, having hard work to keep the
squirrel in her hands; he acted so frightened that she knew now it had
been fear, not anger, which made him run away every time the owl’s name
was mentioned.
“Are you safe, Princess?” came the gray owl’s question.
“Yes,” she cried. Then she saw a heavy stone of the wall move inward
more and more until it slid to the ground with a dull sound, and left a
large open space in the wall.
* * * * *
“Here’s the boy of the Club,” announced Sarah, appearing at the door,
followed by Ben.
Ruth Warren went forward to greet the red-cheeked boy, whose hair lay
wet upon his forehead.
[Illustration: “‘YES, GRAY OWL,’ SHE ANSWERED.”]
“I thought I’d come for a little while,” said Ben, his eyes upon the
last cookie in the plate, a long-necked horse. “Skating wasn’t much
good, and I got in twice.” His wet shoes proved this.
“Sit here by the hearth and dry your feet, Ben,” said Miss Ruth,
turning to brighten the fire.
“Let me do that,” said Ben gallantly, reaching for the tongs.
Sarah took the plate from the table and vanished. Alice began
explaining things to Ben:
“Miss Ruth is telling us a story about Prince Gray Owl, and he is just
saving Princess Katrina from the dungeon. I can tell you the first of
it on the way home, Ben.” Alice had jumped up from her chair and was
devotedly watching her brother while he blew to start the fire until
his red cheeks stood out like small balloons.
“Please go on with the story, Miss Ruth,” cried Betty, impatient at the
delay.
But just then Sarah came in with the large plate piled high again with
cookies. Ben put the tongs back in their place and seated himself
contentedly near the cookies.
Miss Ruth spent a moment or two in looking over the girls’ sewing.
Betty had already made one doll’s dress and begun another. Elsa and
Alice were just finishing their first ones. When Miss Ruth seated
herself again, Elsa drew her chair nearer, and every now and then, as
Miss Ruth went on with the story, Elsa reached out and stroked the soft
fur on the golden-brown gown.
* * * * *
“Princess, can you come through this opening in the wall?” asked a
voice outside of the window-bars.
Trembling now with excitement, the princess took up the tapestry which
had fallen around her and made it into a long roll, slender like
herself.
“Try if this will go through, Gray Owl,” she said. The squirrel clung
to her shoulder.
Slowly the roll of tapestry disappeared through the opening.
“Do you dare follow, Princess?” came the thrilling question.
“I dare--and I follow,” she answered.
“Save me!” cried the squirrel.
Katrina hid the shivering little creature in the folds of her blue
gossamer scarf, and with a last look around the dread dungeon, extended
her arms and put her head and shoulders through the opening in the
wall. Even before the rain-drops outside fell upon her hands, she felt
both hands grasped strongly, and she was drawn gently and steadily
forward until she could spring to her feet upright upon the soft ground.
Before her stood--not the gray owl she had expected to see, but a tall
young man with a graceful figure, and richly dressed in a princely robe
of dark green velvet.
The young man bowed low before Katrina. “Princess,” he said, “I am the
oldest son of the king, your neighbour. I was slightly wounded in one
of my father’s battles, and I came home the very day that your old
nurse escaped to my father’s castle and told of your imprisonment in
this dungeon. I took the shape of an owl and flew across the moat, and
as it was my right arm which was wounded, I kept the owl’s shape and
worked with the strong beak to remove this stone and free you.”
“Sir, never did a knight do more for a maiden,” said the princess, in
turn bowing low. She saw that his right arm hung in a sling.
“I will now fly with you to my father’s castle, where my mother, the
queen, and your faithful nurse await you,” said the prince.
Seeing the wonder on the sweet face of the princess, the prince said:
“Once, when I was a boy, I saved a young gray owl from a fierce eagle;
and the gray owl’s father was so grateful that he gave me the power to
change into a gray owl, at will.”
Then the prince said something which sounded like--
“Gray owl, gray owl,
I would be
A strong gray owl,
Like to thee.”
And he turned into a great, soft-feathered gray owl. It could not have
been just those words,--because Katrina tried to use them so that she
might turn into an owl herself, long afterward, just for fun.
The prince, now the gray owl, spread out one of his soft wings and took
the princess under it; then he gathered the roll of tapestry under the
other wing, and flew away, over the moat, toward his father’s castle.
* * * * *
“What about the gray squirrel?” asked Ben, excitedly flourishing a
half-eaten camel.
* * * * *
On the flight to the home of the prince--said Miss Ruth--Katrina told
the prince about the gray squirrel, whose little heart she could feel
all the time beating against hers. “I have him with me, under my
scarf,” she said. “He is afraid of you, I think,” she added, so low
that the squirrel could not hear.
“The gray owls will do anything for me,” said the prince in a loud
voice. “I will tell the greatest gray owl, the king of the forest, that
from this time forth the owls and the squirrels must live peaceably
together.”
Hearing this, the squirrel took courage and put his head out from
the folds of Katrina’s blue scarf. “Thank you, Gray Owl,” he said
gratefully. Then he slipped away, for they were near the home of the
elf, and he was anxious to have his front teeth and his broken paw
mended.
It happened that the neighbouring king, who had been for many years
away at war, grew alarmed when his son, Prince Edward, was wounded; and
so the king came hurrying home the very night of the day that Princess
Katrina was rescued from the dungeon. When this good king heard the
story of her imprisonment, he decided to set forth the next morning to
punish her wicked uncle, Wulfred, whom he had never liked, but with
whom he had lived in peace, up to this time.
That day, at noon, the false king made his way to the East Tower and
lifted up the trap-door of the dungeon. “Katrina! are you ready to
marry King Rupert?” he shouted down into the darkness.
No voice answered. The uncle called again in a louder voice. Still
no answer came. He peered down into the blackness by the light of a
long torch he had brought, but he could see nothing except the bed of
leaves, the rude bench and the chair.
“She lies dead under the leaves,” the uncle whispered to himself with
chattering teeth. A bat flew against his face. Shaking with fear, he
let the trap-door fall and hurried away, back through the winding,
cobwebby passages, to the state rooms of the palace.
But there more fears awaited him. His three wicked counsellors rushed
up and drew him to the front window, crying: “See!” “A foe is marching
upon us!” “A great and mighty army!”
The false king saw in the distance an army of hundreds of men, all in
glistening armour, with waving plumes and gleaming shields, line after
line stretching far into the distance. At the head of the army, upon a
magnificent black war-horse, rode the neighbouring king, clad in a suit
of mail, with a glittering helmet on his head, surmounted by a flowing
white plume. Behind the king, each upon a beautiful white horse, rode
Prince Edward and Princess Katrina; and upon the shoulder of the
princess perched a large gray squirrel.
* * * * *
“Then what happened?” questioned Betty, breathlessly.
Miss Ruth, glancing at the clock, saw that the hands pointed closely to
five, so she told the rest of the story very fast:
* * * * *
The wicked uncle was a coward before danger. When he found that the
princess was with this great army, he made no resistance, but at once
ordered the white flag of surrender to be flung out from the tower, for
he knew that the powerful neighbouring king would not fail to avenge
Katrina’s wrongs.
The conquering king made the wicked uncle a prisoner, and had him
put into the same dungeon where Katrina had been imprisoned. Prince
Edward and Princess Katrina were married soon after, and ruled
happily for many, many years. Behind their thrones hung the splendid
scarlet-and-gold tapestry upon which the princess had worked during
those dreary days in the dungeon. When the wicked uncle was an old man,
grown thin and white-haired, Katrina had him set free from prison, and
he spent his last days at the court, playing with a feeble, old gray
squirrel.
* * * * *
“Is that all?” sighed Betty, when Miss Ruth stopped talking.
“Thank you ever so much,” said Elsa, as she sat looking into the fire:
“I like Prince Gray Owl,” she added soberly.
“I think Katrina was the best, though, because she had the poor old
uncle pardoned,” said tender-hearted Alice.
“What about the owls and the squirrels?” asked Ben, who was still
eating ginger cookies.
“O, the owls and the squirrels lived happily together ever after in the
woods around, even ‘as far as the lands of the wicked King Rupert, two
days’ journey beyond the sunset,’” said Miss Ruth.
“I wish there was some more about them!” exclaimed Betty.
“There is more about the owls and the squirrels all the time, in the
woods,” said Miss Ruth. “How would you like some Friday afternoon,
instead of having our meeting in the house, to walk out to the
Convalescent Home and then come back through the woods?”
Each and every member of the Club agreed that this would be a splendid
way to have a club meeting. “We could take home the sewing that we
would do at the meeting,” suggested Betty, “and bring it all finished
to the next meeting, so as not to lose time dressing the dolls.”
“You have done well this afternoon, girls,” said Miss Ruth, beginning
to gather up the dolls and their dresses; “and Betty’s idea is a good
one. Each of you ask at home if she may go on the walk, and perhaps we
can have it next Friday.”
“Then we can all see the Convalescings,” said Ben eagerly. “They are
nice little children, and I like to see them getting well.”
“Five o’clock and five minutes after!” cried Elsa, springing up. “I
must go, or grandmother will not like it.”
“Do you have to mind--even five minutes?” asked Betty, in surprise.
“Yes,” answered Elsa, hurriedly putting on her long black cloak. “Uncle
Ned tells me to do just what grandmother says.”
“Who is your Uncle Ned?” inquired Betty, who was taking a few last
stitches in the doll’s dress.
“Uncle Ned? He is the nicest and the dearest and the best man in all
the world,” said Elsa, her violet-gray eyes growing eloquent with
feeling. “He is nicer even than Prince Gray Owl, and I miss him all
the time. Good-bye.” And Elsa ran away with her wide black felt hat
hanging from her arm, and with something very much like tears shining
in her eyes.
Betty had sewed rapidly, and now she held up a second doll’s dress,
finished.
“Good, Betty!” said Miss Ruth. “Let me count how many we have
done,--your two, Elsa and Alice each one, and two of mine, six in all,
out of the twenty-four; it will take us just three meetings more to
finish the eighteen dresses that are left.”
“Then we can do some paper dolls, and rag dolls,” said Alice, clapping
her hands softly.
“Maybe I could help about the paper dolls;” Ben made the suggestion
with a rather careless air. “I could paint dresses, because I know
what looks pretty. When I grow up to be a man I am going to earn a lot
of money and buy pretty dresses for Alice, and I’m going to get her
a black lace one and a yellowy brown one trimmed with fur,” he said,
slowly.
Miss Ruth nodded encouragingly as she met Ben’s earnest blue eyes.
“I will give you some of the pretty dresses, Betty,” said Alice
unselfishly, feeling perfectly sure that Ben would do whatever he
promised.
Betty almost said, “I have prettier dresses now than you have,” but she
stopped just in time and said instead: “I will give you a blue velvet
dress, like Princess Katrina’s.”
To-day, Alice’s blue sailor-suit looked more worn and even shorter
than before, and Ben’s sturdy little figure seemed almost bursting out
through his tight jacket. But both Alice and Ben were too happy-natured
to care much about clothes. He helped her on with her shabby blue coat
most affectionately. The twins were very fond of one another, although
Ben, being a boy, did not think so much about this as Alice did, for
she openly and eagerly showed her love for him.
It was after quarter past five o’clock when Elsa Danforth, waiting in
the bay-window of the dining-room for her bread-and-milk supper, saw
Betty and Alice and Ben come out of the Warren house. “They have had
all this much longer good time!” Elsa said to herself. Life seemed
especially lonely to her just then. Her grandmother had reproved her
for being late, as well as for running home without her hat on.
Elsa was just a simple and loving little girl, who tried very hard
not to be an unhappy one, although she knew she was living without
many things which other little girls had in their homes and with their
mothers. She was lonelier than ever that night, when bedtime came: and
this is how it happened.
Mrs. Danforth had hired a pew at the largest church in Berkeley, and
had given money generously whenever asked to help any good cause. It
had come time for the ladies of the church to make their yearly gift
of clothing and toys to the Convalescent Home. And Mrs. Everett, the
head of the committee, called upon Mrs. Danforth for some money, that
afternoon.
“It seems too bad to spend money for playthings when so much is needed
for clothing,” said Mrs. Everett, as she folded the crisp ten-dollar
bill which Mrs. Danforth handed her. “Has your grandchild any old toys
which might do for the children?”
“I am sure she has,” replied Mrs. Danforth, remembering a large boxful
of half-worn toys in the garret,--toys which Elsa had said she was
tired of.
“I could take them in my carriage now,” said Mrs. Everett. She was a
large-hearted woman, much interested in the Convalescent Home and
eager to help it.
Mrs. Danforth rang for her maid. “Cummings,” she said to the very prim
and proper looking woman in starched white cap and black dress who
appeared instantly, “bring down that boxful of Miss Elsa’s old toys
from the garret. I am going to give them to a children’s home.”
As Cummings went noiselessly out of the room, Mrs. Danforth asked of
her caller: “Do you happen to know a poor family by the name of Colt
or Holt who live just outside the town?” The proud-faced woman bent
forward to disentangle the gold chain of her eye-glasses from the jet
ornaments of her waist.
“Yes, I know the Holts,” said Mrs. Everett. “They are poor but very
self-respecting people.”
“They have a market-garden, I believe?” said Mrs. Danforth, still
struggling with the chain.
“Yes,” replied Mrs. Everett, “and they raise excellent lettuce and
radishes; I can safely recommend their garden products to you. May I
help you with that chain, Mrs. Danforth?”
“Thank you, I have it free now,” said Mrs. Danforth, leaning back and
changing the subject.
When Cummings came noiselessly in again, with a large pasteboard box,
almost full of tin soldiers, picture-books and such playthings, she
suggested very respectfully. “Miss Elsa has the lower drawer of her
bureau full of toys, ma’am.”
“Are you sure Miss Elsa does not play with them, Cummings?”
The gray-haired woman shook her head primly: “Oh, no, ma’am; she never
touches them,”--which was the truth, so far as Cummings knew.
“Very well; bring them also,” said Mrs. Danforth.
As a result, some battered dolls’ furniture, two or three boxes of
games, and one small china doll were added to the collection in the
pasteboard box. Cummings took the now-filled box out to Mrs. Everett’s
carriage, and the kind-hearted woman drove away, happy in having
secured both money and playthings for the Convalescent Home.
* * * * *
When Elsa was ready for bed that night, she opened the lower drawer
of the white bureau to take out Bettina. Her hand fell upon heaped-up
ruffled and embroidered garments.
She turned on the electric light. There, in place of the odd assortment
of playthings under which she had kept Bettina hidden, was a pile of
white underclothing.
Something seemed almost to stop Elsa’s heart from beating as she opened
one bureau drawer after another, and even hunted under the bureau,
without finding her beloved doll. Suddenly she remembered hearing her
grandmother say, that evening, that she had given away some old toys to
the Convalescent Home children, and her own answer: “I am glad you did,
grandmother.” Bettina must have been among them.
Sobbing bitterly, yet without making any sound, Elsa turned off the
light and crept into bed. She felt so lonely and wretched that she
could not go to sleep. After awhile, she climbed out of bed and stood
in front of the row of dolls on the white couch between the windows.
She chose the smallest of these dolls, the one which was most like
Bettina, held her for a moment, then kissed her, put her down and crept
back to bed. Much as she missed Bettina, she could not bear to take
another doll in her place. Again the child fell to sobbing in an agony
of loneliness.
She heard the great clock in the hall chime nine; a moment after,
Cummings closed the door of her own room. When the chimes rang out the
half-hour, Mrs. Danforth’s steps came up the polished front stairs,
passed Elsa’s door, and Elsa heard her grandmother’s door close.
Soon the house was quiet, save for the sound of heavy breathing from
Cummings’s room. Cummings could be noiseless by day but not by night.
Elsa felt that she could not stay in bed another moment. She sprang out
and went again to the row of dolls. Looking out of the window, she saw
a shadow pass across the thin lace curtains of the Warrens’ library
windows,--a shadow which she knew must be Miss Ruth’s.
A desperate hope of comfort flashed into Elsa’s mind. Without a
moment’s delay, she slipped her little bare feet into her white,
fur-lined bedroom shoes, put on the thick, long, white bathrobe
which hung over a chair, and softly opened her door. Then with a
quick-beating heart but without any thought of fear, she crept down
the stairs, took a great fur cape of her grandmother’s from the hall,
undid the front door latch, left the door ajar, and ran down the steps,
in the faint moonlight, and across the dry grass of the lawn to the
Warrens’ house.
Ruth Warren had just put out the lights in the library and was
fastening back the curtains when she saw the strange little
figure speeding toward her house. “Fairy or elf or child,--who
is it, I wonder?” she said to herself. There was something so
distressful-looking in the little hurrying figure that she did not wait
for the bell to ring.
“Why, Elsa dear, what is the trouble?” she asked, drawing the child
into the hall.
Elsa clung to Miss Ruth, sobbing in heart-broken fashion.
“Has anything happened to your grandmother?”
“No, O, no,--not that--I’ve lost--” but sobs drowned the words.
“Have your cry out, dear, and then tell me about it.” Miss Ruth led
Elsa into the library, drew a chair in front of the fireplace where the
coals were yet glowing brightly, unfastened the heavy fur cape and took
the slender little white-gowned figure into her arms.
The comfort of being told to cry all she wanted to, and of having kind
arms around her soon quieted Elsa’s sobs.
With only a little break in her voice, now and then, she told the story
of her loss, feeling, with a child’s sure intuition, that Miss Ruth
understood. “It is--so hard,” she said with a final sigh, hiding her
face against the friendly shoulder; “I have had Bettina ever since
nurse went away.”
“I know it is hard, dear,” Miss Ruth softly stroked the yellow hair.
“What shall we do?”
That “we” was so comforting.
“I--I s’pose I must get along without her,” said Elsa, sitting upright.
The quivering lips and tear-dimmed violet-gray eyes told the grief in
her heart, but her bravery was conquering now.
“How old are you, Elsa?” asked Miss Ruth.
“Almost twelve.”
Miss Ruth wisely waited.
There was a tender apology in Elsa’s voice when she spoke again:
“Grandmother didn’t know about Bettina. She doesn’t know how lonesome I
am.”
Then Elsa turned and looked eagerly into Miss Ruth’s face: “Is your
room over the library?”
“Yes, right over this room.”
Elsa slipped off from Miss Ruth’s lap to the arm of the chair: “I--I
think I could go back now and go to sleep--without Bettina--if you
would just leave one curtain up a little wee bit so as I could know
you--you thought about me--once in awhile,” she said slowly. “I--I
shouldn’t feel so lonely then,--’cause from where my bed is I can look
right out to the window where there is a tall green vase--I thought
maybe it was your room.”
“I will leave that curtain up a little way every night, Elsa, and I
will put a rose in that vase to-night, especially for you, so that you
can see the shadow on the curtain,” said Miss Ruth, rising.
“O, will you?” The silvery voice was eloquent with gratitude. As Elsa
raised her head she suddenly felt very tired and sleepy. Indeed, the
child was almost worn out.
“Now, Elsa, I am going to bring you a glass of milk and then go home
with you,” said Miss Ruth. “Just think how alarmed your grandmother
would be if she should miss you.”
“O, I know she hasn’t missed me,” exclaimed Elsa. “She never thinks
about me, I am sure, after I go to bed.” And Miss Ruth left the child
sitting up with shining eyes and a bright red spot on each cheek.
Elsa was drinking the milk just as the clock struck ten. Quite as if
her grandmother had told her to come home at exactly ten o’clock,
she slipped down from the chair, pulled the great fur cape over her
shoulders, and waited in the hall, a brave little figure with a flushed
face, while Miss Ruth put on her red golf cape.
Miss Ruth fastened the long fur cape securely around Elsa,--for the
night air was chilling cold,--opened the front door, and, before the
child realized it, took her up, a soft, furry bundle and a heavy
one,--and ran with her across the strip of lawn. The door of the
Danforth house was ajar.
“Hush, be very quiet, dear, or we shall wake your grandmother,” she
said, dropping the furry bundle on the top step of the Danforth veranda
and kissing the warm, sleepy face. “Lock the door safely, and go
straight to bed and to sleep.”
But Elsa stopped long enough to whisper into Miss Ruth’s ear: “Thank
you ever and ever so much.”
Almost as soon as Elsa had put down the latch, left the fur cape in
the hall and crept up-stairs to bed, she saw a light in Miss Ruth’s
room and one window shade raised just a little. Even while her eyes
were fixed upon the shadow of a rose against the curtain, she fell fast
asleep and dreamed that her Uncle Ned came in the shape of a great gray
owl, and rescued her out of a white-walled dungeon.