THE CHRISTMAS CUCKOO
Once upon a time there stood in the midst of a bleak moor, in the north
country, a certain village. All its people were poor, for their fields
were barren, and they had little trade; but the poorest of them all were
two brothers called Scrub and Spare. They were cobblers, and had but one
stall between them. It was a hut built of clay and wattles. The door was
low and always open, for there was no window. The roof did not entirely
keep out the rain, and the only thing with any look of comfort about it
was a wide hearth, for which the brothers could never find wood enough
to make a good fire. There they worked in most brotherly friendship,
though the people did not give them very many shoes to make or mend.
The people of that village did not need many shoes, and better cobblers
than Scrub and Spare might be found. Spiteful people said there were no
shoes so bad that they would not be worse for their mending.
Nevertheless Scrub and Spare managed to live by means of their own
trade, a small barley field, and a cottage garden, till a new cobbler
arrived in the village. He had lived in the chief city of the kingdom,
and, by his own account, cobbled for the Queen and the princesses. His
awls were sharp and his lasts were new. He set up his stall in a neat
cottage with two windows.
The villagers soon found out that one patch of his would outwear two of
the brothers'. In short, all the mending left Scrub and Spare, and went
to the new cobbler. The season had been wet and cold, their barley did
not ripen well, and the cabbages never half closed in the garden. So the
brothers were poor that winter; and when Christmas came, they had
nothing to feast on but a barley loaf, a piece of musty bacon, and some
small beer of their own brewing.
Worse than that, the snow was very deep, and they could get no firewood.
Their hut stood at the end of the village; beyond it spread the bleak
moor, now all white and silent. But that moor had once been a forest.
Great roots of old trees were still to be found in it, loosened from the
soil and laid bare by the winds and rains. One of these, a rough, heavy
log, lay close to their door, the half of it above the snow.
Spare said to his brother: "Shall we sit here cold on Christmas Day
while the great root lies yonder? Let us chop it up for firewood, the
work will make us warm."
"No," said Scrub; "it's not right to chop wood on Christmas. Besides,
that root is too hard to be cut with any axe."
"Hard or not, we must have a fire," replied Spare. "Come, brother, help
me in with it. Poor as we are, there is nobody in the village will have
such a Yule log as ours."
Scrub liked to be a little grand sometimes, and in hopes of having a
fine Yule log, both brothers strove with all their might till, between
pulling and pushing, the great old root was safe on the hearth, and soon
began to crackle and blaze with the red embers. In high glee, the
cobblers sat down to their beer and bacon. The door was shut, for there
was nothing but cold moonlight and snow outside. But the hut, strewn
with fir branches, and decked with holly, looked cheerful as the ruddy
blaze flared up and made their hearts glad.
"Long life and good fortune to ourselves, brother!" said Spare. "I hope
you will drink that toast, and may we never have a worse fire on
Christmas--but what is that?"
Spare set down the drinking-horn, and the brothers listened in great
surprise, for out of the blazing root they heard "Cuckoo! cuckoo!" as
plain as ever the spring bird's voice came over the moor on a May morn.
"It is something bad," said Scrub, very much frightened.
"Maybe not," said Spare.
And out of the deep hole at the side which the fire had not reached flew
a large grey cuckoo, and alighted on the table before them. Much as the
cobblers had been surprised at first, they were still more so when the
bird began to speak.
"Good gentlemen," said the cuckoo, "what season is this?"
"It's Christmas," replied Spare.
"Then a merry Christmas to you!" said the cuckoo. "I went to sleep in
the hollow of that old root last summer, and never woke till the heat of
your fire made me think it was summer again. But now, since you have
burned my lodging, let me stay in your hut till the spring comes
round--I only want a hole to sleep in, and when I go on my travels next
summer you may be sure I will bring you some gift for your trouble."
"Stay, and welcome," said Spare, while Scrub sat wondering if it were
something bad or not. "I'll make you a good warm hole in the thatch. But
you must be hungry after that long sleep. There is a slice of barley
bread. Come, help us to keep Christmas!"
The cuckoo ate up the slice, drank some water from the brown jug--for it
would take no beer--and flew into a snug hole which Spare scooped for it
in the thatch of the hut.
Scrub said he was afraid the bird wouldn't be lucky. But as it slept on,
and the days passed, he forgot his fears. So the snow melted, the heavy
rains came, the cold grew less, and the days became longer; and one
sunny morning the brothers were awakened by the cuckoo shouting its own
cry to let them know the spring had come.
"Now," said the bird, "I am going on my travels over the world to tell
men of the spring. There is no country where trees bud, or flowers
bloom, that I will not cry in before the year goes round. Give me
another slice of bread to keep me on my journey, and tell me what gift I
shall bring you at the end of the twelve months."
Scrub would have been angry with his brother for cutting so large a
slice, their store of barley meal being low; but his mind was so taken
up with what present it would be best for him to ask. At length a lucky
thought struck him.
"Good Master Cuckoo," said he, "if a great traveller who sees all the
world like you, could know of any place where diamonds or pearls were
to be found, one of a fairly large size brought in your beak would help
such poor men as my brother and me to get something better than barley
bread to give you the next time you come."
"I know nothing of diamonds or pearls," said the cuckoo. "They are in
the hearts of rocks and the sands of rivers. I know only of that which
grows on the earth. But there are two trees close by the well that lies
at the end of the world. One of them is called the golden tree, for its
leaves are all of beaten gold. Every winter they fall into the well with
a sound like that of scattered gold, and I know not what becomes of
them. As for the other, it is always green, like a laurel. Some call it
the wise, and some the merry tree. Its leaves never fall but they that
get one of them keep a cheerful heart in spite of all troubles, and can
make themselves as merry in a hut as in a palace."
"Good Master Cuckoo, bring me a leaf off that tree!" cried Spare.
"Now, brother, don't be a fool!" said Scrub. "Think of the leaves of
gold. Dear Master Cuckoo, bring me one of them!"
Before another word could be said, the cuckoo had flown out of the open
door, and was shouting its spring cry over moor and meadow.
The brothers were poorer than ever that year. Nobody sent them a single
shoe to mend. The new cobbler said, in scorn, they should come over and
work for him. Scrub and Spare would have left the village but for their
barley field, their cabbage garden, and a maid called Fairfeather, whom
both the cobblers had courted for seven years without even knowing whom
she meant to favour.
Sometimes Fairfeather seemed to favour Scrub, sometimes she smiled on
Spare; but the brothers were always friends and did not quarrel. They
sowed their barley, planted their cabbage, and, now that their trade was
gone, worked in the fields of some of the rich villagers to make out a
scanty living.
So the seasons came and passed. Spring, summer, harvest, and winter
followed each other as they have always done. At the end of the winter
Scrub and Spare had grown so poor and ragged that Fairfeather thought
them beneath her notice. Old neighbours forgot to invite them to wedding
feasts or merrymaking. They thought the cuckoo had forgotten them too,
when at daybreak, on the first of April, they heard a hard beak knocking
at their door and a voice crying:
"Cuckoo! cuckoo! let me in with my gifts."
Spare ran to open the door, and in came the cuckoo, carrying on one side
of his bill a golden leaf larger than that of any tree in the north
country; and in the other, one like that of the common laurel, only it
had a fresher green.
"Here," it said, giving the gold to Scrub and the green to Spare; "it is
a long way to carry them from the end of the world. Give me a slice of
bread, for I must tell the north country that the spring has come."
Scrub did not grudge the thickness of that slice, though it was cut from
their last loaf. So much gold had never been in the cobbler's hands
before, and he could not help exulting over his brother.
"See the wisdom of my choice!" he said, holding up the large leaf of
gold. "As for yours, as good might be plucked from any hedge. I wonder
such a wise bird would carry the like so far."
"Good Master Cobbler," cried the cuckoo, finishing the slice, "your
words are more hasty than kind. If your brother is disappointed this
time, I go on the same journey every year, and for your kind treatment
will think it no trouble to bring each of you whichever leaf you wish."
"Darling cuckoo!" cried Scrub, "bring me a golden one."
And Spare, looking up from the green leaf on which he gazed as though it
were a crown-jewel, said:
"Be sure to bring me one from the merry tree."
And away flew the cuckoo once again.
"This is the Feast of All Fools, and it ought to be your birthday," said
Scrub. "Did ever man fling away such a chance of becoming rich! Much
good your merry leaves will do when you are so poor!"
So he went on; but Spare laughed at him, and answered with many old
proverbs about the cares that come with gold, till Scrub, at length
growing angry, vowed his brother was not fit to live with a gentleman
like himself. And taking his lasts, his awls, and his golden leaf, he
left the wattle hut and went to tell the villagers.
They were surprised at the folly of Spare, and charmed with Scrub's good
sense, more so when he showed them the golden leaf, and told that the
cuckoo would bring him one every spring. The new cobbler at once made
him a partner. The greatest people sent him their shoes to mend.
Fairfeather smiled kindly on him, and in the course of the summer they
were married, with a grand wedding feast, at which the whole village
danced, except Spare, who was not invited, because the bride said he was
low-minded, and his brother thought he was a disgrace to the family.
Indeed, all who heard the story thought that Spare must be mad, and
nobody would take up with him but a lame tinker, a beggar boy, and a
poor woman, who was looked upon as a witch because she was old and ugly.
As for Scrub, he went with Fairfeather to a cottage close by that of the
new cobbler, and quite as fine. There he mended shoes so as to please
everyone, had a scarlet coat for holidays, and a fat goose for dinner
every wedding-day. Fairfeather, too, had a crimson gown and fine blue
ribbons. But neither she nor Scrub were content, for to buy all these
grand things the golden leaf had to be broken and parted with piece by
piece, so the last morsel was gone before the cuckoo came with another.
Spare lived on in the old hut, and worked in the cabbage garden. (Scrub
had got the barley field, because he was the elder.) Every day his coat
grew more ragged, and the hut more weather-beaten, but the people
remarked that he never looked sad nor sour. The wonder was, that from
the time they began to keep his company, the tinker grew kinder to the
ass with which he travelled the country, the beggar boy kept out of
mischief, and the old woman was never cross to her cat or angry with the
children.
Every first of April the cuckoo came tapping at their doors with the
golden leaf to Scrub and the green to Spare. Fairfeather would have
treated him nobly with wheaten bread and honey, for she had some notion
of trying to make him bring two gold leaves instead of one. But the
cuckoo flew away to eat barley bread with Spare, saying he was not fit
company for fine people, and liked the old hut where he slept so snugly
from Christmas to Spring.
Scrub spent the golden leaves, and Spare kept the merry ones; and I know
not how many years passed in this manner, when a great lord, who owned
that village, came to dwell near. His castle stood on the moor. It was
old and strong, with high towers and a deep moat. All the country as far
as one could see from the highest turret belonged to this lord; but he
had not been there for twenty years, and would not have come then, only
he was very sad.
The cause of his grief was that he had been Prime Minister at Court, and
in high favour, till somebody told the Crown Prince that he had spoken
with great disrespect about the turning out of His Royal Highness's
toes, and the King that he did not lay on taxes enough; whereon the
north-country lord was turned out of office and sent to his own estate.
There he lived for some weeks in very bad temper. The servants said
nothing would please him, and the people of the village put on their
worst clothes lest he should raise their rents. But one day, in the
harvest time, his lordship chanced to meet Spare gathering watercresses
at a meadow stream, and fell into talk with the cobbler.
How it was nobody could tell, but from that hour the great lord cast
away his sadness. He forgot his lost office and his Court enemies, the
King's taxes and the Crown Prince's toes, and went about with a noble
train, hunting, fishing, and making merry in his hall, where all
travellers were well treated and all the poor were welcome.
This strange story soon spread through the north country, and a great
company came to the cobbler's hut--rich men who had lost their money,
poor men who had lost their friends, beauties who had grown old, wits
who had gone out of fashion--all came to talk with Spare, and whatever
their troubles had been, all went home merry. The rich gave him
presents, the poor gave him thanks. Spare's coat was no longer ragged,
he had bacon with his cabbage, and the people of the village began to
think there was some sense in him after all.
By this time his fame had reached the chief city of the kingdom, and
even the Court. There were a great many discontented people there
besides the King, who had lately fallen into ill humour because a
princess, who lived in a kingdom near his own, and who had seven islands
for her dowry, would not marry his eldest son. So a royal page was sent
to Spare, with a velvet cloak, a diamond ring, and a command that he
should come to Court at once.
"To-morrow is the first of April," said Spare, "and I will go with you
two hours after sunrise."
The page lodged all night at the castle, and the cuckoo came at sunrise
with the merry leaf.
"The Court is a fine place," he said, when the cobbler told him he was
going. "But I cannot come there, they would lay snares and catch me. So
be careful of the leaves I have brought you, and give me a farewell
slice of barley bread."
Spare was sorry to part with the cuckoo, little as he had of his
company. But he gave him a slice which would have broken Scrub's heart
in the former times, it was so large. And having sewed up the leaves in
the lining of his leather doublet, he set out with the page on his way
to the Court.
His coming caused great surprise there. Everybody wondered what the King
could see in such a common-looking man. But hardly had His Majesty
talked with him half an hour, when the Princess and her seven islands
were forgotten, and orders given that a feast for all-comers should be
spread in the large dining-hall. The princes of the blood, the great
lords and ladies, the Ministers of State, and the judges of the land had
a talk with Spare; the more they talked the lighter grew their hearts,
so that such changes had never been seen at Court. The lords forgot
their spites and the ladies their envies, the princes and Ministers made
friends among themselves, and the judges showed no favour.
As for Spare, he had a room set apart for him in the palace, and a seat
at the King's table. One sent him rich robes and another costly jewels.
But in the midst of all his greatness he still wore the leathern
doublet, which the palace servants thought very mean. One day the King's
attention being drawn to it by the chief page, he asked why Spare didn't
give it to a beggar.
But the cobbler answered: "High and mighty King, this doublet was with
me before silk and velvet came. I find it easier to wear than the Court
cut. Moreover, it serves to keep me humble, by recalling the days when
it was my holiday dress."
The King thought this was a wise speech, and gave orders that no one
should find fault with the leathern doublet. So things went on, till
news of his brother's good fortune reached Scrub in the moorland cottage
on another first of April, when the cuckoo came with two golden leaves
because he had none to carry for Spare.
"Think of that!" said Fairfeather. "Here we are spending our lives in
this humdrum place, and Spare making his fortune at the Court with two
or three paltry green leaves! What would they say to our golden ones?
Let us pack up and make our way to the King's palace. I am sure he will
make you a lord and me a lady of honour, not to speak of all the fine
clothes and presents we shall have."
Scrub thought there was a great deal in what his wife said, and they
began to pack up. But it was soon found that there were very few things
in the cottage fit for carrying to the Court. Fairfeather could not
think of her wooden bowls, spoons, and plates being seen there. Scrub
thought his lasts and awls had better be left behind, as without them
no one would suspect him of being a cobbler. So, putting on their
holiday clothes, Fairfeather took her looking-glass, and Scrub his
drinking-horn, and each carrying a golden leaf wrapped up with great
care that none might see it till they reached the palace, the pair set
out with high hopes.
How far Scrub and Fairfeather journeyed I cannot say; but when the sun
was high and warm at noon, they came into a wood both tired and hungry.
"Husband," said Fairfeather, "you should not have such mean thoughts.
How could one eat barley bread on the way to a palace? Let us rest
ourselves under this tree, and look at our leaves to see if they are
safe."
In looking at the leaves, and talking of what they were going to do when
they came to the Court, Scrub and Fairfeather did not see that a very
thin old woman had slipped from behind a tree, with a long staff in her
hand and a great bag by her side.
"Noble lord and lady," she said,--"for I know you are such by your
voices, though my eyes are dim and my hearing none of the
sharpest,--will you tell me where I may find some water to mix a bottle
of mead which I carry in my bag, because it is too strong for me?"
As the old woman spoke, she pulled out of her bag a large wooden bottle
such as shepherds used in the olden times, corked with leaves rolled
together, and having a small wooden cup hanging from its handle.
"Perhaps you will do me the favour to taste it," she said. "It is only
made of the best of honey. I have also cream cheese, and a wheaten loaf
here, if such noble persons as you eat the like."
Scrub and Fairfeather were now sure, after this speech, that there must
be about them something of the look that noble persons have. Besides,
they were very hungry; and having with great haste wrapped up the golden
leaves, they told the old woman that they were not at all proud,
notwithstanding the lands and castles they had left behind them in the
north country, and would willingly help to lighten the bag. The old
woman would hardly sit down beside them, she was so humble and modest,
but at length she did; and before the bag was half empty, Scrub and
Fairfeather firmly believed that there must be something very
noble-looking about them.
The old woman was a wood-witch. Her name was Buttertongue, and all her
time was spent in making mead, which being boiled with strange herbs and
spells, had the power of making all who drank it fall asleep and dream
with their eyes open. She had two dwarfs of sons; one was named Spy and
the other Pounce. Wherever their mother went, they were not far behind;
and whoever tasted her mead was sure to be robbed by the dwarfs.
Scrub and Fairfeather sat leaning against the old tree. The cobbler had
a lump of cheese in his hand; his wife held fast a hunch of bread. Their
eyes and mouths were both open, but they were dreaming of the fine
things at the Court, when the old woman raised her shrill voice:
"What ho, my sons! come here, and carry home the harvest."
No sooner had she spoken than the two little dwarfs darted out of the
nearest thicket.
"Idle boys!" cried the mother, "what have you done to-day to help our
living?"
"I have been to the city," said Spy, "and could see nothing. These are
hard times for us--everybody minds his work so contentedly since that
cobbler came. But here is a leathern doublet which his page threw out of
the window. It's of no use, but I brought it to let you see I was not
idle." And he tossed down Spare's doublet, with the merry leaves in it,
which he had carried like a bundle on his little back.
To let you know how Spy got hold of it, I must tell you that the forest
was not far from the great city where Spare lived in such high esteem.
All things had gone well with the cobbler till the King thought that it
was quite unbecoming to see such a worthy man without a servant. His
Majesty, therefore, to let all men understand his royal favour towards
Spare, appointed one of his own pages to wait upon him.
The name of this youth was Tinseltoes, and, though he was the seventh of
the King's pages in rank, nobody in all the Court had grander notions.
Nothing could please him that had not gold or silver about it, and his
grandmother feared he would hang himself for being made page to a
cobbler. As for Spare, if anything could have troubled him, this mark of
His Majesty's kindness would have done it.
The honest man had been so used to serve himself that the page was
always in the way; but his merry leaves came to his aid; and, to the
great surprise of his grandmother, Tinseltoes took to the new service in
a wonderful way. Some said it was because Spare gave him nothing to do
but play at bowls all day on the palace green. Yet one thing vexed the
heart of Tinseltoes, and that was his master's leathern doublet. But for
it, he was sure people would never remember that Spare had been a
cobbler; and the page took a deal of pains to let him see how much out
of the fashion it was at the Court. But Spare answered Tinseltoes as he
had done the King; and at last, finding nothing better would do, the
page got up one fine morning earlier than his master, and tossed the
leathern doublet out of the back window into a lane, where Spy found it
and brought it to his mother.
"That nasty thing!" said the old woman. "Where is the good in it?"
By this time, Pounce had taken everything of value from Scrub and
Fairfeather--the looking-glass, the silver-rimmed horn, the husband's
scarlet coat, the wife's gay cloak, and, above all, the golden leaves,
which so gladdened the hearts of old Buttertongue and her sons, that
they threw the leathern doublet over the sleeping cobbler for a joke,
and went off to their hut in the middle of the forest.
The sun was going down when Scrub and Fairfeather awoke from dreaming
that they had been made a lord and a lady, and sat clothed in silk and
velvet, feasting with the King in his palace hall. They were greatly
disappointed to find their golden leaves and all their best things gone.
Scrub tore his hair, and vowed to take the old woman's life, while
Fairfeather uttered loud cries of sorrow. But Scrub, feeling cold for
want of his coat, put on the leathern doublet without asking or caring
whence it came.
Hardly was it buttoned on when a change came over him. He began to talk
so merrily, that, instead of crying, Fairfeather made the wood ring with
laughter. Both busied themselves in getting up a hut of branches, in
which Scrub kindled a fire with a flint and steel, which, together with
his pipe, he had brought unknown to Fairfeather, who had told him the
like was never heard of at the Court. Then they found a pheasant's nest
at the root of an old oak, made a meal of roasted eggs, and went to
sleep on a heap of long green grass which they had gathered, with
nightingales singing all night long in the old trees about them.
So it happened that Scrub and Fairfeather stayed day after day in the
forest, making their hut larger and more cosy against the winter,
living on wild birds' eggs, and berries, and never thinking of their
lost golden leaves, or their journey to the Court.
In the meantime Spare had got up and missed his doublet. Tinseltoes, of
course, said he knew nothing about it. The whole palace was searched,
and every servant questioned, till all the Court wondered why such a
fuss was made about an old leathern doublet. That very day, things came
back to their old fashion. Quarrels began among the lords, and envies
among the ladies. The King said his people did not pay him half enough
taxes, the Queen wanted more jewels, the servants took to their old
quarrels and got up some new ones.
Spare found himself getting strangely dull, and very much out of place.
Nobles began to ask what business a cobbler had at the King's table, and
His Majesty ordered the palace records to be searched to find out if
such a thing had ever taken place before. The cobbler was too wise to
tell all he had lost with that doublet; but as by this time he knew the
Court customs, he offered a reward of fifty gold pieces to anyone who
would bring him news about it.
Scarcely was this made known in the city, when the gates and outer
courts of the palace were filled by men, women, and children--some
bringing leathern doublets of every cut and colour, some with tales of
what they had heard and seen in their walks round about the palace. So
much news about all sorts of great people came out of these stories,
that lords and ladies ran to complain of Spare as one who spoke against
people. His Majesty, being now sure that there was no example in all the
palace records of such a retainer, sent forth a decree sending the
cobbler away for ever from the Court, and giving all his goods to the
page Tinseltoes.
That royal decree was hardly issued before the page had taken for
himself Spare's rich room, his costly garments, and all the presents the
people at Court had given him. While Spare, having no longer the fifty
pieces of gold to give, was glad to make his escape out of a back
window, for fear of the nobles, who vowed to have revenge on him, and
the crowd, who were ready to stone him for cheating them about his
doublet.
The window from which Spare let himself down with a strong rope, was
that from which Tinseltoes had tossed the doublet; and as the cobbler
came down late in the twilight, a poor woodman, with a heavy load of
fagots, stopped and stared at him in great surprise.
"What is the matter, friend?" asked Spare. "Did you never see a man
coming down from a back window before?"
"Why," said the woodman, "the last morning I passed here, a leathern
doublet came out of that very window, and I feel sure you are the owner
of it."
"That I am, friend," said the cobbler eagerly. "Can you tell me which
way that doublet went?"
"As I walked on," said the woodman, "a dwarf, called Spy, bundled it up
and ran off to his mother in the forest."
"Honest friend," said Spare, taking off the last of his fine clothes (a
grass-green cloak edged with gold), "I will give you this if you will
follow the dwarf and bring me back my doublet."
"It would not be good to carry fagots in," said the woodman. "But if you
want back your doublet, the road to the forest lies at the end of this
lane;" and he trudged away.
Having made up his mind to find his doublet, and sure that neither crowd
nor nobles could catch him in the forest, Spare went on his way, and was
soon among the tall trees; but neither hut nor dwarf could he see.
Moreover, the night came on; the wood was dark and thick, but here and
there the moon shone through its lanes, the great owls flitted about,
and the nightingales sang. So he went on, hoping to find some place of
shelter.
At last the red light of a fire, shining through a thicket, led him to
the door of a low hut. It stood half open, as if there was nothing to
fear, and within he saw his brother Scrub snoring loudly on a bed of
grass, at the foot of which lay his own leathern doublet; while
Fairfeather, in a dress made of plaited rushes, sat roasting pheasants'
eggs by the fire.
"Good evening, mistress!" said Spare, stepping in.
The blaze shone on him, but so changed was her brother-in-law with his
Court life, that Fairfeather did not know him, and she answered far more
kindly than was her wont.
"Good evening, master! Whence come you so late? but speak low, for my
good man has tired himself cutting wood, and is taking a sleep, as you
see, before supper."
"A good rest to him!" said Spare, seeing he was not known. "I come from
the Court for a day's hunting, and have lost my way in the forest."
"Sit down and have a share of our supper," said Fairfeather, "I will put
some more eggs in the ashes; and tell me the news of Court--I used to
think of it long ago when I was young and foolish."
"Did you never go there?" said the cobbler. "So fair a dame as you would
make the ladies wonder."
"You are pleased to flatter," said Fairfeather; "but my husband has a
brother there, and we left our moorland village to try our fortune also.
An old woman at the entrance to this forest, by means of fair words, got
us to take some strong drink, which caused us to fall asleep and dream
of great things. But when we woke, everything had been robbed from
us--my looking-glass, my scarlet cloak, my husband's Sunday coat; and,
in place of all, the robbers left him that old doublet, which he has
worn ever since, and he never was so merry in all his life, though we
live in this poor hut."
"It is a shabby doublet, that," said Spare, taking up the garment, and
seeing that it was his own, for the merry leaves were still sewed in its
lining. "It would be good for hunting in, however--your husband would be
glad to part with it, I dare say, in exchange for this handsome cloak;"
and he pulled off the green mantle and buttoned on the doublet, much to
Fairfeather's delight, who ran and shook Scrub, crying: "Husband,
husband, rise and see what a good bargain I have made!"
Scrub gave one last snore, and muttered something about the root being
hard. But he rubbed his eyes, gazed up at his brother and said:
"Spare, is that really you? How did you like the Court, and have you
made your fortune?"
"That I have, brother," said Spare, "in getting back my own good
leathern doublet. Come, let us eat eggs, and rest ourselves here this
night. In the morning we will return to our own old hut, at the end of
the moorland village, where the Christmas Cuckoo will come and bring us
leaves."
Scrub and Fairfeather agreed. So in the morning they all returned, and
found the old hut little the worse for wear and weather. The people of
the village came about them to ask the news of Court, and see if they
had made their fortune. Everybody was surprised to find the three poorer
than ever, but somehow they liked to go to the hut. Spare brought out
the lasts and awls he had hidden in the corner. Scrub and he began their
old trade again, and the whole north country found out that there never
were such cobblers.
They mended the shoes of lords and ladies as well as the common people;
everybody was well pleased with the work. Their trade grew greater from
day to day, and all that were discontented or unlucky came to the hut as
in old times, before Spare went to the Court.
The rich brought them presents, the poor did them service. The hut
itself changed, no one knew how. Flowering honeysuckle grew over its
roof; red and white roses grew thick about its door. Moreover, the
Christmas Cuckoo always came on the first of April, bringing three
leaves of the merry tree--for Scrub and Fairfeather would have no more
golden ones. So it was with them when I last heard the news of the north
country.