discovered what cowards you are, but I had no idea that you were so
ungrateful, selfish, and cruel, as I now find you to be. Here was
your Minor Canon, who labored day and night for your good, and
thought of nothing else but how he might benefit you and make you
happy; and as soon as you imagine yourselves threatened with a
danger,--for well I know you are dreadfully afraid of me,--you send
him off, caring not whether he returns or perishes, hoping thereby to
save yourselves. Now, I had conceived a great liking for that young
man, and had intended, in a day or two, to go and look him up. But I
have changed my mind about him. I shall go and find him, but I shall
send him back here to live among you, and I intend that he shall
enjoy the reward of his labor and his sacrifices. Go, some of you, to
the officers of the church, who so cowardly ran away when I first
came here, and tell them never to return to this town under penalty
of death. And if, when your Minor Canon comes back to you, you do not
bow yourselves before him, put him in the highest place among you,
and serve and honor him all his life, beware of my terrible
vengeance! There were only two good things in this town: the Minor
Canon and the stone image of myself over your church-door. One of
these you have sent away, and the other I shall carry away myself."
With these words he dismissed the meeting, and it was time, for the
end of his tail had become so hot that there was danger of its
setting fire to the building.
The next morning, the Griffin came to the church, and tearing the
stone image of himself from its fastenings over the great door, he
grasped it with his powerful fore-legs and flew up into the air.
Then, after hovering over the town for a moment, he gave his tail an
angry shake and took up his flight to the dreadful wilds. When he
reached this desolate region, he set the stone Griffin upon a ledge
of a rock which rose in front of the dismal cave he called his home.
There the image occupied a position somewhat similar to that it had
had over the church-door; and the Griffin, panting with the exertion
of carrying such an enormous load to so great a distance, lay down
upon the ground, and regarded it with much satisfaction. When he felt
somewhat rested he went to look for the Minor Canon. He found the
young man, weak and half starved, lying under the shadow of a rock.
After picking him up and carrying him to his cave, the Griffin flew
away to a distant marsh, where he procured some roots and herbs which
he well knew were strengthening and beneficial to man, though he had
never tasted them himself. After eating these the Minor Canon was
greatly revived, and sat up and listened while the Griffin told him
what had happened in the town.
"Do you know," said the monster, when he had finished, "that I have
had, and still have, a great liking for you?"
"I am very glad to hear it," said the Minor Canon, with his usual
politeness.
"I am not at all sure that you would be," said the Griffin, "if you
thoroughly understood the state of the case, but we will not consider
that now. If some things were different, other things would be
otherwise. I have been so enraged by discovering the manner in which
you have been treated that I have determined that you shall at last
enjoy the rewards and honors to which you are entitled. Lie down and
have a good sleep, and then I will take you back to the town."
As he heard these words, a look of trouble came over the young man's
face.
"You need not give yourself any anxiety," said the Griffin, "about my
return to the town. I shall not remain there. Now that I have that
admirable likeness of myself in front of my cave, where I can sit at
my leisure, and gaze upon its noble features and magnificent
proportions, I have no wish to see that abode of cowardly and selfish
people."
The Minor Canon, relieved from his fears, lay back, and dropped into
a doze; and when he was sound asleep the Griffin took him up, and
carried him back to the town. He arrived just before daybreak, and
putting the young man gently on the grass in the little field where
he himself used to rest, the monster, without having been seen by any
of the people, flew back to his home.
When the Minor Canon made his appearance in the morning among the
citizens, the enthusiasm and cordiality with which he was received
were truly wonderful. He was taken to a house which had been occupied
by one of the banished high officers of the place, and every one was
anxious to do all that could be done for his health and comfort. The
people crowded into the church when he held services, so that the
three old women who used to be his week-day congregation could not
get to the best seats, which they had always been in the habit of
taking; and the parents of the bad children determined to reform them
at home, in order that he might be spared the trouble of keeping up
his former school. The Minor Canon was appointed to the highest
office of the old church, and before he died, he became a bishop.
During the first years after his return from the dreadful wilds, the
people of the town looked up to him as a man to whom they were bound
to do honor and reverence; but they often, also, looked up to the sky
to see if there were any signs of the Griffin coming back. However,
in the course of time, they learned to honor and reverence their
former Minor Canon without the fear of being punished if they did not
do so.
But they need never have been afraid of the Griffin. The autumnal
equinox day came round, and the monster ate nothing. If he could not
have the Minor Canon, he did not care for any thing. So, lying down,
with his eyes fixed upon the great stone griffin, he gradually
declined, and died. It was a good thing for some of the people of the
town that they did not know this.
If you should ever visit the old town, you would still see the little
griffins on the sides of the church; but the great stone griffin that
was over the door is gone.
OLD PIPES AND THE DRYAD.
* * * * *
A mountain brook ran through a little village. Over the brook there
was a narrow bridge, and from the bridge a foot-path led out from the
village and up the hill-side, to the cottage of Old Pipes and his
mother. For many, many years, Old Pipes had been employed by the
villagers to pipe the cattle down from the hills. Every afternoon, an
hour before sunset, he would sit on a rock in front of his cottage
and play on his pipes. Then all the flocks and herds that were
grazing on the mountains would hear him, wherever they might happen
to be, and would come down to the village--the cows by the easiest
paths, the sheep by those not quite so easy, and the goats by the
steep and rocky ways that were hardest of all.
But now, for a year or more, Old Pipes had not piped the cattle home.
It is true that every afternoon he sat upon the rock and played upon
his familiar instrument; but the cattle did not hear him. He had
grown old, and his breath was feeble. The echoes of his cheerful
notes, which used to come from the rocky hill on the other side of
the valley, were heard no more; and twenty yards from Old Pipes one
could scarcely tell what tune he was playing. He had become somewhat
deaf, and did not know that the sound of his pipes was so thin and
weak, and that the cattle did not hear him. The cows, the sheep, and
the goats came down every afternoon as before, but this was because
two boys and a girl were sent up after them. The villagers did not
wish the good old man to know that his piping was no longer of any
use, so they paid him his little salary every month, and said nothing
about the two boys and the girl.
Old Pipes's mother was, of course, a great deal older then he was,
and was as deaf as a gate,--posts, latch, hinges, and all,--and she
never knew that the sound of her son's pipe did not spread over all
the mountainside, and echo back strong and clear from the opposite
hills. She was very fond of Old Pipes, and proud of his piping; and
as he was so much younger than she was, she never thought of him as
being very old. She cooked for him, and made his bed, and mended his
clothes; and they lived very comfortably on his little salary.
One afternoon, at the end of the month, when Old Pipes had finished
his piping, he took his stout staff and went down the hill to the
village to receive the money for his month's work. The path seemed a
great deal steeper and more difficult than it used to be; and Old
Pipes thought that it must have been washed by the rains and greatly
damaged. He remembered it as a path that was quite easy to traverse
either up or down. But Old Pipes had been a very active man, and as
his mother was so much older than he was, he never thought of himself
as aged and infirm.
When the Chief Villager had paid him, and he had talked a little with
some of his friends, Old Pipes started to go home. But when he had
crossed the bridge over the brook, and gone a short distance up the
hill-side, he became very tired, and sat down upon a stone. He had
not been sitting there half a minute, when along came two boys and a
girl.
"Children," said Old Pipes, "I'm very tired tonight, and I don't
believe I can climb up this steep path to my home. I think I shall
have to ask you to help me."
"We will do that," said the boys and the girl, quite cheerfully; and
one boy took him by the right hand, and the other by the left, while
the girl pushed him in the back. In this way he went up the hill
quite easily, and soon reached his cottage door. Old Pipes gave each
of the three children a copper coin, and then they sat down for a few
minutes' rest before starting back to the village.
"I'm sorry that I tired you so much," said Old Pipes.
"Oh, that would not have tired us," said one of the boys, "if we had
not been so far to-day after the cows, the sheep, and the goats. They
rambled high up on the mountain, and we never before had such a time
in finding them."
"Had to go after the cows, the sheep, and the goats!" exclaimed Old
Pipes. "What do you mean by that?"
The girl, who stood behind the old man, shook her head, put her hand
on her mouth, and made all sorts of signs to the boy to stop talking
on this subject; but he did not notice her, and promptly answered Old
Pipes.
"Why, you see, good sir," said he, "that as the cattle can't hear
your pipes now, somebody has to go after them every evening to drive
them down from the mountain, and the Chief Villager has hired us
three to do it. Generally it is not very hard work, but to-night the
cattle had wandered far."
"How long have you been doing this?" asked the old man.
The girl shook her head and clapped her hand on her mouth more
vigorously than before, but the boy went on.
"I think it is about a year now," he said, "since the people first
felt sure that the cattle could not hear your pipes; and from that
time we've been driving them down. But we are rested now, and will go
home. Good-night, sir."
The three children then went down the hill, the girl scolding the boy
all the way home. Old Pipes stood silent a few moments, and then he
went into his cottage.
"Mother," he shouted; "did you hear what those children said?"
"Children!" exclaimed the old woman; "I did not hear them. I did not
know there were any children here."
Then Old Pipes told his mother, shouting very loudly to make her
hear, how the two boys and the girl had helped him up the hill, and
what he had heard about his piping and the cattle.
"They can't hear you?" cried his mother. "Why, what's the matter with
the cattle?"
"Ah, me!" said Old Pipes; "I don't believe there's any thing the
matter with the cattle. It must be with me and my pipes that there is
something the matter. But one thing is certain, if I do not earn the
wages the Chief Villager pays me, I shall not take them. I shall go
straight down to the village and give back the money I received
to-day."
"Nonsense!" cried his mother. "I'm sure you've piped as well as you
could, and no more can be expected. And what are we to do without the
money?"
"I don't know," said Old Pipes; "but I'm going down to the village to
pay it back."
The sun had now set; but the moon was shining very brightly on the
hill-side, and Old Pipes could see his way very well. He did not take
the same path by which he had gone before, but followed another,
which led among the trees upon the hill-side, and, though longer, was
not so steep.
When he had gone about half-way, the old man sat down to rest,
leaning his back against a great oak-tree. As he did so, he heard a
sound like knocking inside the tree, and then a voice distinctly
said:
"Let me out! let me out!"
Old Pipes instantly forgot that he was tired, and sprang to his feet.
"This must be a Dryad-tree!" he exclaimed. "If it is, I'll let her
out."
Old Pipes had never, to his knowledge, seen a Dryad-tree, but he knew
there were such trees on the hill-sides and the mountains, and that
Dryads lived in them. He knew, too, that in the summer-time, on those
days when the moon rose before the sun went down, a Dryad could come
out of her tree if any one could find the key which locked her in,
and turn it. Old Pipes closely examined the trunk of the tree, which
stood in the full moonlight. "If I see that key," he said, "I shall
surely turn it." Before long he perceived a piece of bark standing
out from the tree, which appeared to him very much like the handle of
a key. He took hold of it, and found he could turn it quite around.
As he did so, a large part of the side of the tree was pushed open,
and a beautiful Dryad stepped quickly out.
For a moment she stood motionless, gazing on the scene before
her,--the tranquil valley, the hills, the forest, and the
mountain-side, all lying in the soft clear light of the moon. "Oh,
lovely! lovely!" she exclaimed. "How long it is since I have seen any
thing like this!" And then, turning to Old Pipes, she said: "How good
of you to let me out! I am so happy and so thankful, that I must kiss
you, you dear old man!" And she threw her arms around the neck of Old
Pipes, and kissed him on both cheeks. "You don't know," she then went
on to say, "how doleful it is to be shut up so long in a tree. I
don't mind it in the winter, for then I am glad to be sheltered, but
in summer it is a rueful thing not to be able to see all the beauties
of the world. And it's ever so long since I've been let out. People
so seldom come this way; and when they do come at the right time they
either don't hear me, or they are frightened, and run away. But you,
you dear old man, you were not frightened, and you looked and looked
for the key, and you let me out, and now I shall not have to go back
till winter has come, and the air grows cold. Oh, it is glorious!
What can I do for you, to show you how grateful I am?"
"I am very glad," said Old Pipes, "that I let you out, since I see
that it makes you so happy; but I must admit that I tried to find the
key because I had a great desire to see a Dryad. But if you wish to
do something for me, you can, if you happen to be going down toward
the village."
"To the village!" exclaimed the Dryad. "I will go anywhere for you,
my kind old benefactor."
"Well, then," said Old Pipes, "I wish you would take this little bag
of money to the Chief Villager and tell him that Old Pipes cannot
receive pay for the services which he does not perform. It is now
more than a year that I have not been able to make the cattle hear
me, when I piped to call them home. I did not know this until
to-night; but now that I know it, I cannot keep the money, and so I
send it back." And, handing the little bag to the Dryad, he bade her
good-night, and turned toward his cottage.
"Good-night," said the Dryad. "And I thank you over, and over, and
over again, you good old man!"
Old Pipes walked toward his home, very glad to be saved the fatigue
of going all the way down to the village and back again. "To be
sure," he said to himself, "this path does not seem at all steep, and
I can walk along it very easily; but it would have tired me
dreadfully to come up all the way from the village, especially as I
could not have expected those children to help me again." When he
reached home, his mother was surprised to see him returning so soon.
"What!" she exclaimed; "have you already come back? What did the
Chief Villager say? Did he take the money?"
Old Pipes was just about to tell her that he had sent the money to
the village by a Dryad, when he suddenly reflected that his mother
would be sure to disapprove such a proceeding, and so he merely said
he had sent it by a person whom he had met.
"And how do you know that the person will ever take it to the Chief
Villager?" cried his mother. "You will lose it, and the villagers
will never get it. Oh, Pipes! Pipes! when will you be old enough to
have ordinary common sense?"
Old Pipes considered that as he was already seventy years of age he
could scarcely expect to grow any wiser, but he made no remark on
this subject; and, saying that he doubted not that the money would go
safely to its destination, he sat down to his supper. His mother
scolded him roundly, but he did not mind it; and after supper he went
out and sat on a rustic chair in front of the cottage to look at the
moonlit village, and to wonder whether or not the Chief Villager
really received the money. While he was doing these two things, he
went fast asleep.
When Old Pipes left the Dryad, she did not go down to the village
with the little bag of money. She held it in her hand, and thought
about what she had heard. "This is a good and honest old man," she
said; "and it is a shame that he should lose this money. He looked as
if he needed it, and I don't believe the people in the village will
take it from one who has served them so long. Often, when in my tree,
have I heard the sweet notes of his pipes. I am going to take the
money back to him." She did not start immediately, because there were
so many beautiful things to look at; but after a while she went up to
the cottage, and, finding Old Pipes asleep in his chair, she slipped
the little bag into his coat-pocket, and silently sped away.
The next day, Old Pipes told his mother that he would go up the
mountain and cut some wood. He had a right to get wood from the
mountain, but for a long time he had been content to pick up the dead
branches which lay about his cottage. To-day, however, he felt so
strong and vigorous that he thought he would go and cut some fuel
that would be better than this. He worked all the morning, and when
he came back he did not feel at all tired, and he had a very good
appetite for his dinner.
Now, Old Pipes knew a good deal about Dryads, but there was one thing
which, although he had heard, he had forgotten. This was, that a kiss
from a Dryad made a person ten years younger. The people of the
village knew this, and they were very careful not to let any child of
ten years or younger, go into the woods where the Dryads were
supposed to be; for, if they should chance to be kissed by one of
these tree-nymphs, they would be set back so far that they would
cease to exist. A story was told in the village that a very bad boy
of eleven once ran away into the woods, and had an adventure of this
kind; and when his mother found him he was a little baby of one year
old. Taking advantage of her opportunity, she brought him up more
carefully than she had done before; and he grew to be a very good boy
indeed.
Now, Old Pipes had been kissed twice by the Dryad, once on each
cheek, and he therefore felt as vigorous and active as when he was a
hale man of fifty. His mother noticed how much work he was doing, and
told him that he need not try in that way to make up for the loss of
his piping wages; for he would only tire himself out, and get sick.
But her son answered that he had not felt so well for years, and that
he was quite able to work. In the course of the afternoon, Old Pipes,
for the first time that day, put his hand in his coat-pocket, and
there, to his amazement, he found the little bag of money. "Well,
well!" he exclaimed, "I am stupid, indeed! I really thought that I
had seen a Dryad; but when I sat down by that big oak-tree I must
have gone to sleep and dreamed it all; and then I came home thinking
I had given the money to a Dryad, when it was in my pocket all the
time. But the Chief Villager shall have the money. I shall not take
it to him to-day, but to-morrow I wish to go to the village to see
some of my old friends; and then I shall give up the money."
Toward the close of the afternoon, Old Pipes, as had been his custom
for so many years, took his pipes from the shelf on which they lay,
and went out to the rock in front of the cottage.
"What are you going to do?" cried his mother. "If you will not
consent to be paid, why do you pipe?"
"I am going to pipe for my own pleasure," said her son. "I am used to
it, and I do not wish to give it up. It does not matter now whether
the cattle hear me or not, and I am sure that my piping will injure
no one."
When the good man began to play upon his favorite instrument he was
astonished at the sound that came from it. The beautiful notes of the
pipes sounded clear and strong down into the valley, and spread over
the hills, and up the sides of the mountain beyond, while, after a
little interval, an echo came back from the rocky hill on the other
side of the valley.
"Ha! ha!" he cried, "what has happened to my pipes? They must have
been stopped up of late, but now they are as clear and good as ever."
Again the merry notes went sounding far and wide. The cattle on the
mountain heard them, and those that were old enough remembered how
these notes had called them from their pastures every evening, and so
they started down the mountain-side, the others following.
The merry notes were heard in the village below, and the people were
much astonished thereby. "Why, who can be blowing the pipes of Old
Pipes?" they said. But, as they were all very busy, no one went up to
see. One thing, however, was plain enough: the cattle were coming
down the mountain. And so the two boys and the girl did not have to
go after them, and had an hour for play, for which they were very
glad.
The next morning Old Pipes started down to the village with his
money, and on the way he met the Dryad. "Oh, ho!" he cried, "is that
you? Why, I thought my letting you out of the tree was nothing but a
dream."
"A dream!" cried the Dryad; "if you only knew how happy you have made
me, you would not think it merely a dream. And has it not benefited
you? Do you not feel happier? Yesterday I heard you playing
beautifully on your pipes."
"Yes, yes," cried he. "I did not understand it before, but I see it
all now. I have really grown younger. I thank you, I thank you, good
Dryad, from the bottom of my heart. It was the finding of the money
in my pocket that made me think it was a dream."
"Oh, I put it in when you were asleep," she said, laughing, "because
I thought you ought to keep it. Good-by, kind, honest man. May you
live long, and be as happy as I am now."
Old Pipes was greatly delighted when he understood that he was really
a younger man; but that made no difference about the money, and he
kept on his way to the village. As soon as he reached it, he was
eagerly questioned as to who had been playing his pipes the evening
before, and when the people heard that it was himself, they were very
much surprised. Thereupon, Old Pipes told what had happened to him,
and then there was greater wonder, with hearty congratulations and
hand-shakes; for Old Pipes was liked by every one. The Chief Villager
refused to take his money, and, although Old Pipes said that he had
not earned it, every one present insisted that, as he would now play
on his pipes as before, he should lose nothing, because, for a time,
he was unable to perform his duty.
So Old Pipes was obliged to keep his money, and after an hour or two
spent in conversation with his friends, he returned to his cottage.
There was one individual, however, who was not at all pleased with
what had happened to Old Pipes. This was an Echo-dwarf, who lived on
the hills on the other side of the valley, and whose duty it was to
echo back the notes of the pipes whenever they could be heard. There
were a great many other Echo-dwarfs on these hills, some of whom
echoed back the songs of maidens, some the shouts of children, and
others the music that was often heard in the village. But there was
only one who could send back the strong notes of the pipes of Old
Pipes, and this had been his sole duty for many years. But when the
old man grew feeble, and the notes of his pipes could not be heard on
the opposite hills, this Echo-dwarf had nothing to do, and he spent
his time in delightful idleness; and he slept so much and grew so fat
that it made his companions laugh to see him walk.