the pipes was heard on the echo hills, this dwarf was fast asleep
behind a rock. As soon as the first notes reached them, some of his
companions ran to wake him. Rolling to his feet, he echoed back the
merry tune of Old Pipes. Naturally, he was very much annoyed and
indignant at being thus obliged to give up his life of comfortable
leisure, and he hoped very much that this pipe-playing would not
occur again. The next afternoon he was awake and listening, and, sure
enough, at the usual hour, along came the notes of the pipes as clear
and strong as they ever had been; and he was obliged to work as long
as Old Pipes played. The Echo-dwarf was very angry. He had supposed,
of course, that the pipe-playing had ceased forever, and he felt that
he had a right to be indignant at being thus deceived. He was so much
disturbed that he made up his mind to go and try to find out whether
this was to be a temporary matter or not. He had plenty of time, as
the pipes were played but once a day, and he set off early in the
morning for the hill on which Old Pipes lived. It was hard work for
the fat little fellow, and when he had crossed the valley and had
gone some distance into the woods on the hill-side, he stopped to
rest, and, in a few minutes, the Dryad came tripping along.
"Ho, ho!" exclaimed the dwarf; "what are you doing here? and how did
you get out of your tree?"
"Doing!" cried the Dryad; "I am being happy; that's what I am doing.
And I was let out of my tree by the good old man who plays the pipes
to call the cattle down from the mountain. And it makes me happier to
think that I have been of service to him. I gave him two kisses of
gratitude, and now he is young enough to play his pipes as well as
ever."
The Echo-dwarf stepped forward, his face pale with passion. "Am I to
believe," he said, "that you are the cause of this great evil that
has come upon me? and that you are the wicked creature who has again
started this old man upon his career of pipe-playing? What have I
ever done to you that you should have condemned me for years and
years to echo back the notes of those wretched pipes?"
At this the Dryad laughed loudly.
"What a funny little fellow you are!" she said. "Any one would think
you had been condemned to toil from morning till night; while what
you really have to do is merely to imitate for half an hour every day
the merry notes of Old Pipes's piping. Fie upon you, Echo-dwarf! You
are lazy and selfish; and that is what is the matter with you.
Instead of grumbling at being obliged to do a little wholesome work,
which is less, I am sure, than that of any other echo-dwarf upon the
rocky hill-side, you should rejoice at the good fortune of the old
man who has regained so much of his strength and vigor. Go home and
learn to be just and generous; and then, perhaps, you may be happy.
Good-by."
"Insolent creature!" shouted the dwarf, as he shook his fat little
fist at her. "I'll make you suffer for this. You shall find out what
it is to heap injury and insult upon one like me, and to snatch from
him the repose that he has earned by long years of toil." And,
shaking his head savagely, he hurried back to the rocky hill-side.
Every afternoon the merry notes of the pipes of Old Pipes sounded
down into the valley and over the hills and up the mountain-side; and
every afternoon when he had echoed them back, the little dwarf grew
more and more angry with the Dryad. Each day, from early morning till
it was time for him to go back to his duties upon the rocky
hill-side, he searched the woods for her. He intended, if he met her,
to pretend to be very sorry for what he had said, and he thought he
might be able to play a trick upon her which would avenge him well.
One day, while thus wandering among the trees, he met Old Pipes. The
Echo-dwarf did not generally care to see or speak to ordinary people;
but now he was so anxious to find the object of his search, that he
stopped and asked Old Pipes if he had seen the Dryad. The piper had
not noticed the little fellow, and he looked down on him with some
surprise.
"No," he said; "I have not seen her, and I have been looking
everywhere for her."
"You!" cried the dwarf, "what do you wish with her?"
Old Pipes then sat down on a stone, so that he should be nearer the
ear of his small companion, and he told what the Dryad had done for
him.
When the Echo-dwarf heard that this was the man whose pipes he was
obliged to echo back every day, he would have slain him on the spot
had he been able; but, as he was not able, he merely ground his teeth
and listened to the rest of the story.
"I am looking for the Dryad now," Old Pipes continued, "on account of
my aged mother. When I was old myself, I did not notice how very old
my mother was; but now it shocks me to see how feeble and decrepit
her years have caused her to become; and I am looking for the Dryad
to ask her to make my mother younger, as she made me."
The eyes of the Echo-dwarf glistened. Here was a man who might help
him in his plans.
"Your idea is a good one," he said to Old Pipes, "and it does you
honor. But you should know that a Dryad can make no person younger
but one who lets her out of her tree. However, you can manage the
affair very easily. All you need do is to find the Dryad, tell her
what you want, and request her to step into her tree and be shut up
for a short time. Then you will go and bring your mother to the tree;
she will open it, and every thing will be as you wish. Is not this a
good plan?"
"Excellent!" cried Old Pipes; "and I will go instantly and search
more diligently for the Dryad."
"Take me with you," said the Echo-dwarf. "You can easily carry me on
your strong shoulders; and I shall be glad to help you in any way
that I can."
"Now, then," said the little fellow to himself, as Old Pipes carried
him rapidly along, "if he persuades the Dryad to get into a
tree,--and she is quite foolish enough to do it,--and then goes away
to bring his mother, I shall take a stone or a club and I will break
off the key of that tree, so that nobody can ever turn it again. Then
Mistress Dryad will see what she has brought upon herself by her
behavior to me."
Before long they came to the great oak-tree in which the Dryad had
lived, and, at a distance, they saw that beautiful creature herself
coming toward them.
"How excellently well every thing happens!" said the dwarf. "Put me
down, and I will go. Your business with the Dryad is more important
than mine; and you need not say any thing about my having suggested
your plan to you. I am willing that you should have all the credit of
it yourself."
Old Pipes put the Echo-dwarf upon the ground, but the little rogue
did not go away. He concealed himself between some low, mossy rocks,
and he was so much of their color that you would not have noticed him
if you had been looking straight at him.
When the Dryad came up, Old Pipes lost no time in telling her about
his mother, and what he wished her to do. At first, the Dryad
answered nothing, but stood looking very sadly at Old Pipes.
"Do you really wish me to go into my tree again?" she said. "I should
dreadfully dislike to do it, for I don't know what might happen. It
is not at all necessary, for I could make your mother younger at any
time if she would give me the opportunity. I had already thought of
making you still happier in this way, and several times I have waited
about your cottage, hoping to meet your aged mother, but she never
comes outside, and you know a Dryad cannot enter a house. I cannot
imagine what put this idea into your head. Did you think of it
yourself?"
"No, I cannot say that I did," answered Old Pipes. "A little dwarf
whom I met in the woods proposed it to me."
"Oh!" cried the Dryad; "now I see through it all. It is the scheme of
that vile Echo-dwarf--your enemy and mine. Where is he? I should like
to see him."
"I think he has gone away," said Old Pipes.
"No he has not," said the Dryad, whose quick eyes perceived the
Echo-dwarf among the rocks. "There he is. Seize him and drag him out,
I beg of you."
Old Pipes perceived the dwarf as soon as he was pointed out to him,
and, running to the rocks, he caught the little fellow by the arm and
pulled him out.
"Now, then," cried the Dryad, who had opened the door of the great
oak, "just stick him in there, and we will shut him up. Then I shall
be safe from his mischief for the rest of the time I am free."
Old Pipes thrust the Echo-dwarf into the tree; the Dryad pushed the
door shut; there was a clicking sound of bark and wood, and no one
would have noticed that the big oak had ever had an opening in it.
"There," said the Dryad; "now we need not be afraid of him. And I
assure you, my good piper, that I shall be very glad to make your
mother younger as soon as I can. Will you not ask her to come out and
meet me?"
"Of course I will," cried Old Pipes; "and I will do it without
delay."
And then, the Dryad by his side, he hurried to his cottage. But when
he mentioned the matter to his mother, the old woman became very
angry indeed. She did not believe in Dryads; and, if they really did
exist, she knew they must be witches and sorceresses, and she would
have nothing to do with them. If her son had ever allowed himself to
be kissed by one of them, he ought to be ashamed of himself. As to
its doing him the least bit of good, she did not believe a word of
it. He felt better than he used to feel, but that was very common.
She had sometimes felt that way herself, and she forbade him ever to
mention a Dryad to her again.
That afternoon, Old Pipes, feeling very sad that his plan in regard
to his mother had failed, sat down upon the rock and played upon his
pipes. The pleasant sounds went down the valley and up the hills and
mountain, but, to the great surprise of some persons who happened to
notice the fact, the notes were not echoed back from the rocky
hill-side, but from the woods on the side of the valley on which Old
Pipes lived. The next day many of the villagers stopped in their work
to listen to the echo of the pipes coming from the woods. The sound
was not as clear and strong as it used to be when it was sent back
from the rocky hill-side, but it certainly came from among the trees.
Such a thing as an echo changing its place in this way had never been
heard of before, and nobody was able to explain how it could have
happened. Old Pipes, however, knew very well that the sound came from
the Echo-dwarf shut up in the great oak-tree. The sides of the tree
were thin, and the sound of the pipes could be heard through them,
and the dwarf was obliged by the laws of his being to echo back those
notes whenever they came to him. But Old Pipes thought he might get
the Dryad in trouble if he let any one know that the Echo-dwarf was
shut up in the tree, and so he wisely said nothing about it.
One day the two boys and the girl who had helped Old Pipes up the
hill were playing in the woods. Stopping near the great oak-tree,
they heard a sound of knocking within it, and then a voice plainly
said:
"Let me out! let me out!"
For a moment the children stood still in astonishment, and then one
of the boys exclaimed:
"Oh, it is a Dryad, like the one Old Pipes found! Let's let her out!"
"What are you thinking of?" cried the girl. "I am the oldest of all,
and I am only thirteen. Do you wish to be turned into crawling
babies? Run! run! run!"
And the two boys and the girl dashed down into the valley as fast as
their legs could carry them. There was no desire in their youthful
hearts to be made younger than they were. And for fear that their
parents might think it well that they should commence their careers
anew, they never said a word about finding the Dryad-tree.
As the summer days went on, Old Pipes's mother grew feebler and
feebler. One day when her son was away, for he now frequently went
into the woods to hunt or fish, or down into the valley to work, she
arose from her knitting to prepare the simple dinner. But she felt so
weak and tired that she was not able to do the work to which she had
been so long accustomed. "Alas! alas!" she said, "the time has come
when I am too old to work. My son will have to hire some one to come
here and cook his meals, make his bed, and mend his clothes. Alas!
alas! I had hoped that as long as I lived I should be able to do
these things. But it is not so. I have grown utterly worthless, and
some one else must prepare the dinner for my son. I wonder where he
is." And tottering to the door, she went outside to look for him. She
did not feel able to stand, and reaching the rustic chair, she sank
into it, quite exhausted, and soon fell asleep.
The Dryad, who had often come to the cottage to see if she could find
an opportunity of carrying out old Pipes's affectionate design, now
happened by; and seeing that the much-desired occasion had come, she
stepped up quietly behind the old woman and gently kissed her on each
cheek, and then as quietly disappeared.
In a few minutes the mother of old Pipes awoke, and looking up at the
sun, she exclaimed: "Why, it is almost dinner-time! My son will be
here directly, and I am not ready for him." And rising to her feet,
she hurried into the house, made the fire, set the meat and
vegetables to cook, laid the cloth, and by the time her son arrived
the meal was on the table.
"How a little sleep does refresh one," she said to herself, as she
was bustling about. She was a woman of very vigorous constitution,
and at seventy had been a great deal stronger and more active than
her son was at that age. The moment Old Pipes saw his mother, he knew
that the Dryad had been there; but, while he felt as happy as a king,
he was too wise to say any thing about her.
"It is astonishing how well I feel to-day," said his mother; "and
either my hearing has improved or you speak much more plainly than
you have done of late."
The summer days went on and passed away, the leaves were falling from
the trees, and the air was becoming cold.
"Nature has ceased to be lovely," said the Dryad, "and the
night-winds chill me. It is time for me to go back into my
comfortable quarters in the great oak. But first I must pay another
visit to the cottage of Old Pipes."
She found the piper and his mother sitting side by side on the rock
in front of the door. The cattle were not to go to the mountain any
more that season, and he was piping them down for the last time. Loud
and merrily sounded the pipes of Old Pipes, and down the
mountain-side came the cattle, the cows by the easiest paths, the
sheep by those not quite so easy, and the goats by the most difficult
ones among the rocks; while from the great oak-tree were heard the
echoes of the cheerful music.
"How happy they look, sitting there together," said the Dryad; "and I
don't believe it will do them a bit of harm to be still younger." And
moving quietly up behind them, she first kissed Old Pipes on his
cheek and then his mother.
Old Pipes, who had stopped playing, knew what it was, but he did not
move, and said nothing. His mother, thinking that her son had kissed
her, turned to him with a smile and kissed him in return. And then
she arose and went into the cottage, a vigorous woman of sixty,
followed by her son, erect and happy, and twenty years younger than
herself.
The Dryad sped away to the woods, shrugging her shoulders as she felt
the cool evening wind.
When she reached the great oak, she turned the key and opened the
door. "Come out," she said to the Echo-dwarf, who sat blinking
within. "Winter is coming on, and I want the comfortable shelter of
my tree for myself. The cattle have come down from the mountain for
the last time this year, the pipes will no longer sound, and you can
go to your rocks and have a holiday until next spring."
Upon hearing these words the dwarf skipped quickly out, and the Dryad
entered the tree and pulled the door shut after her. "Now, then," she
said to herself, "he can break off the key if he likes. It does not
matter to me. Another will grow out next spring. And although the
good piper made me no promise, I know that when the warm days arrive
next year, he will come and let me out again."
The Echo-dwarf did not stop to break the key of the tree. He was too
happy to be released to think of any thing else, and he hastened as
fast as he could to his home on the rocky hill-side.
* * * * *
The Dryad was not mistaken when she trusted in the piper. When the
warm days came again he went to the oak-tree to let her out. But, to
his sorrow and surprise, he found the great tree lying upon the
ground. A winter storm had blown it down, and it lay with its trunk
shattered and split. And what became of the Dryad, no one ever knew.
THE QUEEN'S MUSEUM.
* * * * *
There was once a Queen who founded, in her capital city, a grand
museum. This institution was the pride of her heart, and she devoted
nearly all her time to overseeing the collection of objects for it,
and their arrangement in the spacious halls. This museum was intended
to elevate the intelligence of her people, but the result was quite
disappointing to the Queen. For some reason, and what it was she
could not imagine, the people were not interested in her museum. She
considered it the most delightful place in the world, and spent hours
every day in examining and studying the thousands of objects it
contained; but although here and there in the city there was a person
who cared to visit the collection, the great body of the people found
it impossible to feel the slightest interest in it. At first this
grieved the Queen, and she tried to make her museum better; but as
this did no good, she became very angry, and she issued a decree that
all persons of mature age who were not interested in her museum
should be sent to prison.
This decree produced a great sensation in the city. The people
crowded to the building, and did their very best to be interested;
but, in the majority of cases, the attempt was an utter failure. They
could not feel any interest whatever. The consequence was that
hundreds and thousands of the people were sent to prison, and as
there was not room enough for them in the ordinary jails, large
temporary prisons were erected in various parts of the city. Those
persons who were actually needed for work or service which no one
else could do were allowed to come out in the day-time on parole; but
at night they had to return to their prisons.
It was during this deplorable state of affairs that a stranger
entered the city one day. He was surprised at seeing so many prisons,
and approaching the window in one of them, behind the bars of which
he saw a very respectable-looking citizen, he asked what all this
meant. The citizen informed him how matters stood, and then, with
tears mounting to his eyes, he added:
"Oh, sir, I have tried my best to be interested in that museum; but
it is impossible; I cannot make myself care for it in the slightest
degree! And, what is more, I know I shall never be able to do so; and
I shall languish here for the rest of my days."
Passing on, the Stranger met a mother coming out of her house. Her
face was pale, and she was weeping bitterly. Filled with pity, he
stopped and asked her what was the matter. "Oh, sir," she said, "for
a week I have been trying, for the sake of my dear children, to take
an interest in that museum. For a time I thought I might do it, but
the hopes proved false. It is impossible. I must leave my little
ones, and go to prison."
The Stranger was deeply affected by these cases and many others of a
similar character, which he soon met with. "It is too bad! too bad!"
he said to himself. "I never saw a city in so much trouble. There is
scarcely a family, I am told, in which there is not some uninterested
person--I must see the Queen and talk to her about it," and with this
he wended his way to the palace.
He met the Queen just starting out on her morning visit to the
museum. When he made it known that he was a stranger, and desired a
short audience, she stopped and spoke to him.
"Have you visited my museum yet?" she said. "There is nothing in the
city so well worth your attention as that. You should go there before
seeing any thing else. You have a high forehead, and an intelligent
expression, and I have no doubt that it will interest you greatly. I
am going there myself, and I shall be glad to see what effect that
fine collection has upon a stranger."
This did not suit the Stranger at all. From what he had heard he felt
quite sure that if he went to the museum, he would soon be in jail;
and so he hurried to propose a plan which had occurred to him while
on his way to the palace.
"I came to see your Majesty on the subject of the museum," he said,
"and to crave permission to contribute to the collection some objects
which shall be interesting to every one. I understand that it is
highly desirable that every one should be interested."
"Of course it is," said the Queen, "and although I think that there
is not the slightest reason why every one should not feel the keenest
interest in what the museum already contains, I am willing to add to
it whatever may make it of greater value."
"In that case," said the Stranger, "no time should be lost in
securing what I wish to present."
"Go at once," said the Queen. "But how soon can you return?"
"It will take some days, at least," said the Stranger.
"Give me your parole to return in a week," said the Queen, "and start
immediately."
The Stranger gave his parole and left the palace. Having filled a
leathern bag with provisions from a cook's shop, he went out of the
city gates. As he walked into the open country, he said to himself:
"I have certainly undertaken a very difficult enterprise. Where I am
to find any thing that will interest all the people in that city, I
am sure I do not know; but my heart is so filled with pity for the
great number of unfortunate persons who are torn from their homes and
shut up in prison, that I am determined to do something for them, if
I possibly can. There must be some objects to be found in this vast
country that will interest every one."
About noon he came to a great mountain-side covered with a forest.
Thinking that he was as likely to find what he sought in one place as
another, and preferring the shade to the sun, he entered the forest,
and walked for some distance along a path which gradually led up the
mountain. Having crossed a brook with its edges lined with
water-cresses, he soon perceived a large cave, at the entrance of
which sat an aged hermit. "Ah," said the Stranger to himself, "this
is indeed fortunate! This good and venerable man, who passes his life
amid the secrets of nature, can surely tell me what I wish to know."
Saluting the Hermit, he sat down and told the old man the object of
his quest.
"I am afraid you are looking for what you will not find," said the
Hermit. "Most people are too silly to be truly interested in any
thing. They herd together like cattle, and do not know what is good
for them. There are now on this mountain-side many commodious and
comfortable caves, all of which would be tenanted if people only knew
how improving and interesting it is to live apart from their
fellow-men. But, so far as it can be done, I will help you in your
quest, which I think is a worthy one. I can do nothing for you
myself, but I have a pupil who is very much given to wandering about,
and looking for curious things. He may tell you where you will be
able to find something that will interest everybody, though I doubt
it. You may go and see him, if you like, and I will excuse him from
his studies for a time, so that he may aid you in your search."
The Hermit then wrote an excuse upon a piece of parchment, and,
giving it to the Stranger, he directed him to the cave of his pupil.
This was situated at some distance, and higher up the mountain, and
when the Stranger reached it, he found the Pupil fast asleep upon the
ground. This individual was a long-legged youth, with long arms, long
hair, a long nose, and a long face. When the Stranger awakened him,
told him why he had come, and gave him the hermit's excuse, the
sleepy eyes of the Pupil brightened, and his face grew less long.
"That's delightful!" he said, "to be let off on a Monday; for I
generally have to be satisfied with a half-holiday, Wednesdays and
Saturdays."
"Is the Hermit very strict with you?" asked the Stranger.
"Yes," said the Pupil, "I have to stick closely to the cave; though I
have been known to go fishing on days when there was no holiday. I
have never seen the old man but once, and that was when he first took
me. You know it wouldn't do for us to be too sociable. That wouldn't
be hermit-like. He comes up here on the afternoons I am out, and
writes down what I am to do for the next half-week."
"And do you always do it?" asked the Stranger.