THE FAIRY TALE AND THE TRUE STORY
THE six of them were gathered together. Uncle Paul was reading in a big
book, Jacques braiding a wicker basket, Mother Ambroisine plying her
distaff, Claire marking linen with red thread, Emile and Jules playing
with the Noah’s Ark. And when they had lined up the horse after the
camel, the dog after the horse, then the sheep, donkey, ox, lion,
elephant, bear, gazelle, and a great many others,—when they had them all
arranged in a long procession leading to the ark, Emile and Jules, tired
of playing, said to Mother Ambroisine: “Tell us a story, Mother
Ambroisine—one that will amuse us.”
And with the simplicity of old age Mother Ambroisine spoke as follows,
at the same time twirling her spindle:
“Once upon a time a grasshopper went to the fair with an ant. The river
was all frozen. Then the grasshopper gave a jump and landed on the other
side of the ice, but the ant could not do this; and it said to the
grasshopper: ‘Take me on your shoulders; I weigh so little.’ But the
grasshopper said: ‘Do as I do; give a spring, and jump.’ The ant gave a
spring, but slipped and broke its leg.
“Ice, ice, the strong should be kind; but you are wicked, to have broken
the ant’s leg—poor little leg.
“Then the ice said: ‘The sun is stronger than I, and it melts me.’
“Sun, sun, the strong should be kind; but you are wicked, to melt the
ice; and you, ice, to have broken the ant’s leg—poor little leg.
“Then the sun said: ‘The clouds are stronger than I; they hide me.’
“Clouds, clouds, the strong should be kind; but you are wicked, to hide
the sun; you, sun, to melt the ice; and you, ice, to have broken the
ant’s leg—poor little leg.
“Then the clouds said: ‘The wind is stronger than we; it drives us
away.’
“Wind, wind, the strong should be kind; but you are wicked, to drive
away the clouds; you, clouds, to hide the sun; you, sun, to melt the
ice; and you, ice, to have broken the ant’s leg—poor little leg.
“Then the wind said: ‘The walls are stronger than I; they stop me.’
“Walls, walls, the strong should be kind; but you are wicked, to stop
the wind; you, wind, to drive away the clouds; you, clouds, to hide the
sun; you, sun, to melt the ice; and you, ice, to have broken the ant’s
leg—poor little leg.
“Then the walls said: ‘The rat is stronger than we; it bores holes
through us.’
“Rat, rat, the strong—”
“But it is all the same thing, over and over again, Mother Ambroisine,”
exclaimed Jules impatiently.
“Not quite, my child. After the rat comes the cat that eats the rat,
then the broom that strikes the cat, then the fire that burns the broom,
then the water that puts out the fire, then the ox that quenches his
thirst with the water, then the fly that stings the ox, then the swallow
that snaps up the fly, then the snare that catches the swallow, then—”
“And does it go on very long like that?” asked Emile.
“As long as you please,” replied Mother Ambroisine, “for however strong
one may be, there are always others stronger still.”
“Really, Mother Ambroisine,” said Emile, “that story tires me.”
“Then listen to this one: Once upon a time there lived a woodchopper and
his wife, and they were very poor. They had seven children, the youngest
so very, very small that a wooden shoe answered for its bed.”
“I know that story,” again interposed Emile. “The seven children are
going to get lost in the woods. Little Hop-o’-my-Thumb marks the way at
first with white pebbles, then with bread crumbs. Birds eat the crumbs.
The children get lost, Hop-o’-my-Thumb, from the top of a tree, sees a
light in the distance. They run to it: rat-tat-tat! It is the dwelling
of an ogre!”
“There is no truth in that,” declared Jules, “nor in Puss-in-Boots, nor
Cinderella, nor Bluebeard. They are fairy tales, not true stories. For
my part, I want stories that are really and truly so.”
At the words, true stories, Uncle Paul raised his head and closed his
big book. A fine opportunity offered for turning the conversation to
more useful and interesting subjects than Mother Ambroisine’s old tales.
“I approve of your wanting true stories,” said he. “You will find in
them at the same time the marvelous, which pleases so much at your age,
and also the useful, with which even at your age you must concern
yourselves, in preparation for after life. Believe me, a true story is
much more interesting than a tale in which ogres smell fresh blood and
fairies change pumpkins into carriages and lizards into lackeys. And
could it be otherwise? Compared with truth, fiction is but a pitiful
trifle; for the former is the work of God, the latter the dream of man.
Mother Ambroisine could not interest you with the ant that broke its leg
in trying to cross the ice. Shall I be more fortunate? Who wants to hear
a true story of real ants?”
[Illustration: White Ant]
“I! I!” cried Emile, Jules, and Claire all together.
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