THE
GARNET STORY BOOK
_Tales of Cheer Both Old and New_
COMPILED AND EDITED BY
ADA M. SKINNER
AND
ELEANOR L. SKINNER
_Editors of “The Emerald Story Book” “The Topaz Story Book”
“The Turquoise Story Book” and “The Pearl Story Book”_
[Illustration]
NEW YORK
DUFFIELD AND COMPANY
1920
Copyright, 1920, by
DUFFIELD & COMPANY
CONTENTS
PAGE
THE GOOD-NATURED BEAR
(adapted and abridged) _Richard H. Horne_ 3
CHRISTMAS WISHES _Louise Chollet_ 73
THE MAN OF SNOW (adapted) _Harriet Myrtle_ 93
BUTTERWOPS (adapted) _Edward Abbott Parry_ 120
FINIKIN AND HIS GOLDEN PIPPINS _Madame De Chatelaine_ 138
THE STORY OF FAIRYFOOT _Frances Browne_ 173
THE SNOW-QUEEN (abridged) _Hans Christian Andersen_ 192
THE MERRY TALE OF THE KING AND THE COBBLER
(adapted) _From Gammer Gurton’s Historie_ 253
THE STORY OF MERRYMIND _Frances Browne_ 267
INTRODUCTION
About the middle of the last century there was printed in England
a children’s story with the attractive title, “The Good Natured
Bear.” This story, written by Robert H. Horne, was reviewed by
William Makepeace Thackeray, who at that time signed his criticisms
M. A. Titmarsh. Mr. Thackeray wrote an article entitled “On Some
Illustrated Children’s Books” for _Fraser’s Magazine_ in which he
made the following comment: “Let a word be said in conclusion about
the admirable story of ‘The Good Natured Bear,’ one of the wittiest,
pleasantest, and kindest of books that I have read for many a long day.”
A few years ago the editors of this collection of stories found
out-of-print copies of “The Good Natured Bear,” “The Man of Snow,”
and “Finikin and His Golden Pippins”--all old-fashioned tales for
children. Believing that young readers of to-day will enjoy the good
cheer and merry humour of these stories, the editors have included them
in this volume with other happy tales which are perhaps much better
known.
The excellent humourous stories in the folklore of all nations point
out to us that good cheer and merriment were favourite themes of the
olden-time story-teller. Some of his rarest treasures were nonsense
rhymes, fables, and allegories which enlisted the sympathy of his
audience by inducing them to laugh with him. With a merry twinkle in
his eye we can hear him addressing the tiniest listeners:
“Hey diddle diddle, the cat and the fiddle,
The cow jumped over the moon;
The little dog laughed to see such sport
And the dish ran away with the spoon.”
Wide-eyed children pressing close to the enchanter were not the only
persons in that appreciative audience who smiled at the first picture
suggested by the rhyme, laughed with the little dog, and enjoyed with
wholesome abandon the merriment called forth by the incongruous
surprise of the last line. The story-teller knew the refreshing value
of hearty laughter at pure nonsense.
The stories in this collection were written by authors who had the
precious gift of knowing how to entertain young readers with narratives
of good cheer and happy frolic. Such stories are valuable because they
keep alive and develop a wholesome sense of humour. It is perfectly
natural for a normal child to laugh heartily at the grotesque antics
of a circus clown. But this elemental response to merry fun should be
trained and quickened into a rich and varied sense of humour which
can laugh with Gareth when Lancelot unhorses him; revel with Puck in
Fairyland; and enjoy a merry Christmas with the Cratchits.
THE GARNET STORY BOOK
Oh, for a nook and a story book,
With tales both new and old;
For a jolly good book whereon to look
Is better to me than gold!
OLD ENGLISH SONG.
THE GOOD-NATURED BEAR
RICHARD H. HORNE
_The First Evening_
One Christmas evening a number of merry children were invited to a
party at Dr. Littlepump’s country residence. The neat white house with
blue shutters stood on the best street of the village. Nancy and her
younger brother, little Valentine, were the children of Dr. Littlepump,
and they had invited several other children to come and spend Christmas
evening with them. Very happy they all were. They danced to the music
of a flute and fiddle; they ran about and sang and squeaked and hopped
upon one leg and crept upon all fours and jumped over small cushions
and stools. Then they sat down in a circle round the stove and laughed
at the fire.
Besides Dr. and Mrs. Littlepump and the children there were several
others in the room who joined in the merriment. First there was
Margaret who was seated in the middle of the group of children. She
was the pretty governess of Nancy and little Valentine and one of the
nicest girls in the village. Then there were Lydia, the housemaid,
Dorothea, the cook, Wallis, the gardener, and Uncle Abraham, the
younger brother of Dr. Littlepump.
Uncle Abraham was always doing kind things in his quiet way, and
everybody was very fond of him. He sat in one corner of the room, with
his elbow resting upon a little round table, smoking a large Dutch
pipe, and very busy with his own thoughts. Now and then his eyes gave a
twinkle, as if he was pleased with something in his mind.
The children now all asked Margaret to sing a pretty song, which she
did at once with her sweet voice; but the words were very odd. This was
the song:
“There came a rough-faced Stranger
From the leafless winter woods,
And he told of many a danger
From the snow-storms and black floods.
“On his back he bore the glory
Of his brothers, who were left
In a secret rocky cleft--
Now guess his name, and story!”
“But who was the rough-faced Stranger?” asked Nancy.
“And what was the glory he carried pick-a-back?” cried little Valentine.
“Who were his brothers?”
“Where was the rocky cleft?” cried three or four of the children.
“Oh,” said Margaret, “you must guess!”
So all the children began guessing at this song-riddle; but they could
make nothing of it.
“Do tell us the answer to the riddle Margaret,” they coaxed.
At last Margaret said, “Well, I promise to tell you all about the
rough-faced Stranger in half an hour, if nothing happens to make you
forget to ask me!”
“Oh! we shall not forget to ask,” said Nancy.
There was now a silence for a few minutes as if the children were all
thinking. Uncle Abraham, who sometimes went to bed very early, slowly
rose from his chair, lighted his candle, carefully snuffed it (and, as
he did so, his eyes gave a twinkle), and walking round the outside of
all the circle, wished them good-night, and away he went to bed.
About eight o’clock in the evening, when the snow lay deep upon the
ground, a very stout gentleman in a very rough coat and fur boots got
down from the outside of a carriage which had stopped in front of Dr.
Littlepump’s door. In a trice all the children crowded around the
windows to look at the carriage and the gentleman who had got down.
Besides his very rough coat and fur boots, the stout gentleman wore a
short cloak, a hunting cap, and a pair of large fur gloves. The cap was
pulled down almost over his eyes, so that his face could not be seen,
and round his throat he had an immense orange-coloured comforter.
The carriage now drove on, and left the stout gentleman standing in the
middle of the street. He first shook the snow from his cloak. After
this he began to stamp with his feet to warm them. This movement looked
like a clumsy dance in a little circle and all the children laughed.
The next thing he did was to give himself a good rubbing on the breast
and he hit it so awkwardly that it looked like a great clumsy paw on
some creature giving itself a scratch. At this the children laughed
louder than before. They were almost afraid he would hear it through
the windows. The stout gentleman next drew forth an immense pocket
handkerchief and with this he began to dust his face, to knock off
the frost, and also to warm his nose, which seemed to be very large
and long and to require great attention. When the children saw the
gentleman do this they could keep quiet no longer; all burst out into a
loud shout of laughter.
The stout gentleman instantly stopped, and began to look around him
in all directions, to see where the laughing came from. The children
suddenly became quiet. The stout gentleman turned round and round,
looking up and down at the windows of every house near him. At last his
eyes rested on the three parlour windows of Dr. Littlepump’s house,
which were crowded with faces. No sooner had he done this than he
walked towards the house with a long stride and an angry air.
In an instant all the children ran away from the windows crying out,
“Here he comes! Here he comes!”
Presently a scraping was heard upon the steps of the door, then a
loud knock! The children all ran to their seats and sat quite silent,
looking at one another. There was a loud ringing of the bell.
“I am sorry,” said Mrs. Littlepump, “that the stout gentleman is so
much offended.”
“I don’t know very well what to say to him,” said Dr. Littlepump.
Again came the ringing of the bell!
Not one of them liked to go to open the door.
Margaret rose to go and little Val cried out, “Oh, don’t you go,
Margaret, dearest; let Wallis go.” But when Margaret promised to run
away as soon as she had opened the door, she was allowed to go. Both
Nancy and Valentine called after her, “Be sure to run back to us as
fast as ever you can.”
The children sat listening with all their ears. Presently they did hear
something. It was the snap of the lock, the creaking of the door, and a
scrambling noise. Margaret came running back into the room quite out of
breath, crying out, “Oh, such a nose! Such a dirty face! Don’t ask me
anything!”
There was no time for any questions. A slow, heavy footstep was heard
in the hall, then in the passage, then the parlour door opened wide
and in walked the stout gentleman with the rough coat! He had, indeed,
an immense nose,--both long and broad and as dark as the shadow of a
hill. He stepped only a pace or two into the room and then stood still,
looking at Dr. Littlepump, who was the only other person who ventured
to stand up.
“I believe I have the honour,” said the stout gentleman, making a low
bow, “I believe I have the honour of addressing Dr. Littlepump.”
The doctor bowed but said nothing.
The stout gentleman continued, “If I had not known it was impossible
that anyone so learned as Dr. Littlepump could allow anybody to be
insulted from the windows of his house, I should have felt very angry
on the present occasion. It may have made merriment for our young
friends here; but it is a serious thing to me.”
“Sir,” said Dr. Littlepump, “it grieves me that your feelings should
have been hurt by the laughter of these children. But, sir, I can
assure you no harm was meant by it. This is holiday time, and, though
you appear to be a foreign gentleman, yet you are no doubt also a
gentleman who has seen much of the world, and of society.”
“No, sir; no, Mr. Doctor!” exclaimed the stout gentleman, “I have not
seen much of society. It is true, too true, that I am a foreigner, in
some respects, but from society the misfortune of my birth has excluded
me.”
“Oh, pray, sir, do not concern yourself any further on this matter,”
said Mrs. Littlepump, in a courteous voice.
“Madam,” said the stout gentleman, “you are too kind. It is such very
amiable persons as yourself, that reconcile me to my species--I mean,
to the human species. What have I said? Not of my species would I
willingly speak. But in truth, madam, it is my own knowledge of what
I am, under my coat, that makes me always fear my secret has been
discovered. I thought the children with their little, quick eyes,
always looking about, had seen who it was that lived under this rough
coat I wear.”
So saying the stout gentleman put one of his fur gloves to his left eye
and wiped away a large tear.
“Then, my dear sir,” said Mrs. Littlepump, “do take off your coat, and
permit us to have the pleasure of seeing you take a seat among us round
the stove.”
“Oh, ye green woods, dark nights, and rocky caves hidden with hanging
weeds, why do I so well remember ye!” exclaimed the stout gentleman,
clasping his fur gloves together. “I will relieve my mind and tell you
all. My rough coat, the companion of my childhood, and which has grown
with my growth, I cannot lay aside. It grows to my skin, madam. My fur
gloves are nature’s gift. They were bought at no shop, Mrs. Littlepump.
My fur boots are as much a part of me as my beard. Lady, I am, indeed,
a foreigner, as to society; I was born in no city, town, or village,
but in a cave full of dry leaves and soft twigs. The truth is, I am not
a man--but a _Bear_!”
As he finished speaking he took off his comforter, coat, and cap--and
sure enough a Bear he was, and one of the largest that was ever seen!
In a very soft voice, so as scarcely to be heard by anyone except the
children who had crowded around her, Margaret began to sing:
“There came a rough-faced Stranger
From the leafless winter woods.”
The children heard Margaret sing, and ventured to look up at the Bear.
He continued to stand near the door, and as he hadn’t the least sign
of anything savage in his appearance, their fear began to change to
curiosity. Two of the youngest had hidden themselves in the folds of
Mrs. Littlepump’s dress, and little Val had crept under the table. But
when these found that nothing was going to happen, and that the other
children did not cry out or seem terrified, they peeped out at the
Bear,--then they peeped again. At about the seventh peep they all three
left their hiding places and crowded in among the rest--all looking at
the Bear!
“I trust,” said Dr. Littlepump, “that this discovery--this casting
off all disguise--produces no change in the nature and habits you
have learned in civilized society. I feel sure that I am addressing a
gentleman, that is to say, a most gentlemanly specimen of bear.”
“Banish all unkind suspicion from your breast, Mr. Doctor,” said the
Bear. “No one ever need fear from me a single rude hug,--such as my
ancestors were too apt to give.”
“Oh, we feel quite satisfied,” said Mrs. Littlepump, “that your conduct
will be of the very best kind. Pray take a seat near the fire. The
children will all make room for you.”
The children all made room enough in a trice, and more than enough, as
they crowded back as far as they could and left a large open circle
opposite the stove.
The Bear laid one paw upon his grateful breast and advanced towards the
fireplace.
“Permit me to begin with warming my nose,” he said.
As the door of the stove was now closed, the Bear bent his head down,
and moved his nose backwards and forwards in a sort of a semi-circle,
seeming to enjoy it very much.
“As my nose is very long,” said he, “the tip of it is the first part
that gets cold because it is so far away from my face. I fear it may
not seem a well-shaped one, but it is a capital smeller. I used to be
able, when at a distance of several miles, to smell--ahem!”
Here the Bear checked himself suddenly. He was going to say something
about his life at home in the woods that would not be thought very nice
in Dr. Littlepump’s parlour. But he just caught himself up in time. In
doing this, however, his confusion at the moment had made him neglect
to observe that a part of the stove was again red hot. He came a little
too close and all at once burnt the tip of his nose!
The children would certainly have laughed, but as the Bear started back
he looked quickly round the room. So everybody was afraid to laugh.
“And you have, no doubt, a very fine ear for music,” said Mrs.
Littlepump, wishing to relieve the Bear from his embarrassment.
“I have, indeed, madam, a fine pair of ears, though I know too well
that they are rather large as to size,” said the Bear.
“By no means too large, sir,” answered Mrs. Littlepump.
“If the whole world were hunted through and through,” said the Bear,
“I’m sure we should never find any other lady so amiable in speaking
graciously to one of the humblest of her servants as Lady Littlepump.”
“We shall be proud, sir, to place you in the list of our most
particular friends. You are so modest, so polite, so handsome a Bear.”
As Mrs. Littlepump finished this last speech, the Bear looked at her
for a moment--then made three great steps backwards, and made a deep
bow. His bow was so very low, and he remained so very long with his
nose pointing to the floor that all the children were ready to die with
laughter. Little Val fell upon the floor trying to keep his laugh in,
and there he lay kicking, and Margaret, who had covered her face with
her handkerchief, was heard to give a sort of a little scream; and
Nancy had run to the sofa, and covered her head with one of the pillows.
At length the Bear raised his head. He looked very pleasant even
through all that rough hair. Turning to Dr. Littlepump, he said, “Mr.
Dr. Littlepump, the extreme kindness of this reception of one who is
a stranger wins me completely. If you permit me, I will tell you the
whole story of my life.”
At this speech everybody said, “Do let us hear the Bear’s story!”
It was agreed upon, with many thanks from Dr. and Mrs. Littlepump. They
placed a large chair for the Bear in the middle of the room. The Doctor
took down Uncle Abraham’s Dutch pipe, filled it with the very best
Turkey tobacco and handed it to the Bear. After carefully lighting it
and taking a few whiffs, and stopping a little while to think, the Bear
told the following story:
“I was born in one of the largest caves in a forest. My father and
mother were regarded not only by all other bears, but by every other
animal, as persons of some consequence. My father was a person of proud
and resentful disposition, though of the greatest courage and honour.
But my mother was one in whom all the qualities of the fairer sex were
united. I shall never forget the patience, the gentleness, the skill,
and the firmness with which she first taught me to walk alone--I mean
to walk on all fours, of course; the upright manner of my present
walking was learned afterwards. As this infant effort, however, is one
of my very earliest recollections, I will give you a little account of
it.”
“Oh, do, Mr. Bear,” cried Margaret. And no sooner had she uttered the
words, than all the children cried out at the same time, “Oh, please
do, sir.”
The Bear took several long whiffs at his pipe and thus continued:
“My mother took me to a retired part of the forest, and told me that
I must now stand alone. She slowly lowered me towards the earth. The
height as I looked down seemed terrible, and I felt my legs kick
in the air with fear of I know not what. Suddenly I felt four hard
things, and no motion. It was the fixed earth beneath my legs. ‘Now
you are standing alone!’ said my mother. But what she said I heard as
in a dream. My back was in the air, my nose was poking out straight,
snuffing the fresh breezes, my ears were pricking and shooting with
all sorts of new sounds, to wonder at, to want to have, to love, or to
tumble down at,--and my eyes were staring before me full of light and
dancing things. Soon the firm voice of my mother came to my assistance,
and I heard her tell me to look upon the earth beneath me, and see
where I was.
First I looked up among the boughs, then sideways at my shoulder, then
I squinted at the tip of my nose, then I bent my nose in despair, and
saw my fore paws standing. The first thing I saw distinctly was a
little blue flower with a bright jewel in the middle,--a dewdrop. The
next thing I saw upon the ground was a soft-looking little creature,
that crawled alone with a round ball upon the middle of its back. It
was of a beautiful white colour with brown and red curling stripes.
The creature moved very, very slowly, and appeared always to follow
two long horns on its head, that went feeling about on all sides.
Presently, it approached my right fore paw, and I wondered how I should
feel, or smell, or hear it, as it went over my toes. But the instant
one of the horns touched the hair of my paw, both horns shrank into
nothing, and presently came out again, and the creature slowly moved
away in another direction. I wondered at this strange action--for
I never thought of hurting the creature, not knowing how to hurt
anything. While I was wondering what made the horn think I should hurt
it, my attention was suddenly drawn to a tuft of moss on my right near
a hollow tree trunk. Out of this green tuft looked a pair of very
bright, small, round eyes which were staring up at me. I stood looking
at the eyes, and, presently, I saw that the head was yellow, and all
the face and throat yellow, and that it had a large mouth.
‘What you saw a little while ago,’ said my mother, ‘we call a snail.
And what we see now we call a frog.’
The names, however, did not help me at all to understand. Why the first
should have turned from my paw so suddenly, and why this creature
should continue to stare up at me in such a manner puzzled me very
much. I now observed that its body and breast were double somehow, and
that its paws had no hair upon them. I thought this was no doubt caused
by its slow crawling which had probably rubbed it all off. Suddenly, a
beam of bright light broke through the trees and this creature gave a
great hop right under my nose and I, thinking the world was at an end,
instantly fell flat down on one side and lay there waiting!”
At this all the children laughed; they were so delighted. The Bear
laughed, too, and soon went on with his story.
“I tell you these things,” he said, “in as clear a manner as I can,
that you may rightly understand them. My dear mother caught me up in
her arms, saying, ‘Oh, thou small bear! thou hast fallen flat down, on
first seeing a frog hop.’
The next day my mother gave me my first lesson in walking. She took me
to a nice, smooth, sandy place in the forest, not far from home, and
setting me down carefully, said, ‘Walk.’ But I remained just where I
was.
If a child with only _two_ legs feels puzzled which leg it should
move first, judge of the many puzzles of a young bear under such
circumstances. Said I to myself, ‘Shall I move my right front paw first
or my left; or my right hind leg or my left? Shall I first move the two
front legs both at the same time, then the two hind legs; or my two
hind legs first, and then my two front legs? Shall I move the right
front leg, and the right hind leg at the same time; or the left front
leg and the right hind leg? Shall I try to move all four at once, and
how, and which way? Or shall I move three legs at once, in order to
push myself on, while one leg remains for me to balance my body upon;
and if so, which three legs should move and which one should be the
leg to balance upon?’ Amidst all these confusing thoughts and feelings,
I was afraid to move in any way. I believe I should have been standing
there to this day, had not my mother, with a slow bowing and bending
motion of the head and backbone, gracefully passed and repassed me
several times, saying, ‘Do _so_, child!--leave off thinking, and walk!’
My mother was right. As soon as I left off thinking about it, I found
myself walking. Oh, what a wonderful and clever young gentleman I found
myself! I went plowing along with such a serious face upon the ground!
I soon ran my head against one or two trees, and a bit of rock, each of
which I saw very well before I did so; but I thought they would get out
of my way or slip aside, or that my head would go softly through them.
My mother, therefore, took me up and carried me till we arrived within
a short distance of our cave. In front of it there was a large space of
high, green grass, through which a regular path had been worn by the
feet of my father and mother. At the beginning of this path, my mother
placed me on the ground, and told me I must walk to the cave along the
pathway all by myself. This was a great task for me. I thought I should
never be able to keep in such a straight line. I felt dizzy as I looked
first on one side, and then on the other, expecting every instant to
tumble over into the high, green grass, on the right or left. However,
I managed to get to the cave without any accident.”
As the Bear finished the last sentence he suddenly rose, and drew out
from beneath a thick tuft of hair on his right side, a very large
watch, with a broad gold face and a tortoise-shell back.
“I must go,” said he, hurrying on his short cloak, his cap, and
comforter, “for it is nearly ten o’clock, and before I go to bed I
have some work to do. But I will come again to-morrow night and finish
my story. Mrs. Littlepump, I am your respectful and grateful, humble
servant! Mr. Dr. Littlepump, I am also yours. Good-night to you, Miss
Nancy, and to you, little Val, and to you, pretty Miss Margaret, and to
all my young friends, and all the rest. May you all sleep well, and
with happy dreams!”
“Good-night,” cried all the children in a loud chorus. “Oh, be sure to
come to-morrow evening!”
“Good-night, Mr. Bear!” cried everybody, while the stout gentleman
bustled, and hustled, and rustled, and scuffled out of the room, and
along the passage, and out of the street-door, and into the street,
where he was soon lost sight of in the snow which was now falling very
fast.
_Second Evening_
The next evening, about dusk, all the children who had been visiting
Nancy and Valentine came again in a troop, scrambling and crowding at
the door to get in first. They were so anxious to hear the remainder of
the Bear’s story. As they all came into the room, they cried out, “Is
he come?--When will he come?”
Dr. Littlepump walked up and down the room with an air of serious
anxiety; anyone could see he had something on his mind. Mrs.
Littlepump also said more than once that she hoped no accident would
happen on the road to prevent the coming of Mr. Bear. Margaret now
became very anxious and fidgetty, and looked at Uncle Abraham, as
though she was a little vexed at his indifference about the event
in which everybody else took so much interest. Dorothea, Lydia, and
Wallis, all said they, for their parts, had been unable to sleep all
last night for thinking of the stout gentleman’s story. But nothing of
all this seemed to move Uncle Abraham, who sat smoking his Dutch pipe
and twinkling his eyes. Presently, however, the clock struck five, and
he rose from his chair, saying he must go and make a little visit a few
doors off before he went to bed. They all begged him very hard to stay
and see Mr. Bear, but he shook his head, and said, “Pooh” and walked
away. Margaret looked pleased when he was gone, but the children said
it was very naughty of him not to stay.
Margaret said, “Let us play a little game until Mr. Bear arrives.”
“Yes,” said all the children.
They began to play the game, but they did not attend to it. Their minds
were too much filled with the expectation of Mr. Bear.
“Oh, I do hope the gentleman Bear will be sure to come,” cried little
Val.
As he said this they very plainly heard the sound of a horse’s hoofs
coming up the street. They all ran to the window. What was their
surprise and delight to see that it was the Bear on horseback! As the
horse stopped before Dr. Littlepump’s door, the stout gentleman in
the rough coat bent forward, then let himself slowly down, hanging
carefully till his fur boots touched the ground. At this all the
children burst out laughing; but instantly recollecting themselves,
they ran away from the windows, and scrambled into seats round the
stove, coughing a little, to pretend it had been only that. And now a
knock was heard at the door and a loud ring! Margaret ran and opened
the door and in came the Bear.
Everybody was so glad to see him. Wallis and Margaret helped him to
take off his cloak and comforter. Mrs. Littlepump begged him to take
a seat near the stove. Dorothea presented him with a large cup of nice
coffee, hot, and strong, and very sweet, and Dr. Littlepump handed him
Uncle Abraham’s pipe.
Everybody being now comfortably settled, the Bear rose from his chair,
and, bowing all round, looked at Dr. Littlepump and said, “Mr. Dr.
Littlepump, let me know what is the wish of our young friends here?”
“Oh, Mr. Good-Natured Bear!” cried Nancy, “do please continue your
delightful story!”
The Bear laid one paw upon his heart,--bowed--sat down--and after
looking thoughtfully into the bowl of his pipe for a few minutes, as if
to collect his ideas, thus continued:
“At the foot of our cave, there was, as I have told you, a plot of
high, green grass with a path through it up to the entrance. At the
back of the rock in which the cave was, there grew several fine old
oak trees, and some young elms, all promising to become very tall and
beautiful. My father was very fond of walking alone among those fine
trees.
One afternoon he was taking a nap on our bed of leaves in the cave,
when he was aroused by a noise at the back of the rock, among the
trees. The sound was that of a number of hard blows one after another.
My father went to see what it was, and there he saw a woodman with an
axe cutting down the young elms. In perfect rage, my father ran towards
the man, who instantly scampered away as fast as he could, crying out:
‘Oh! Oh! Oh!’
The next morning as soon as it was light the same noise was heard
again among the trees. Up jumped my father, but my mother, fearing
some danger, went with him. It was a good thing she did so, as the
forester had brought his two sons with loaded guns to watch for my
father while the woodman was at work. My mother saw the two youths each
hiding behind a large tree and she begged my father, both for her sake
and mine, to come away. At last he did so, though not without much
gruffness and grumbling.
By the evening the woodman had cut down about a third part of the
young elms. Then he went away, intending to come and carry them off in
the morning. My mother tried to persuade my father not to interfere
because it was too near our home. But my father said they were _his_
trees and he could not bear to lose them. So at night he collected all
the trees that were cut down, and carried them, one or two at a time,
to a river, at a short distance, where the current was strong, and
threw them in with a great splash. Long before morning the current had
carried them all far away.
The next day the woodman came with his two sons, a team of horses, and
ropes to drag the trees away. But there was not one to be seen! After
wondering and sitting under an oak for an hour, the woodman again went
to work with his axe and cut down more young elm trees. He sent one son
back with the horses, as they were needed for the plow.
In the evening the woodman went away as before, leaving the trees,
and thinking no one would steal them a second time. But at night my
father went as before and threw them all into the river. In the morning
the woodman came again with the team. ‘What!’ cried he, ‘All gone
again!--it must be the work of some fairy! Thieves could never carry
away clean out of sight all those heavy young trees,--unless, indeed,
it were the Forty Thieves, for it would need as many.’
Again the woodman cut down the trees and now there was not an elm left
standing. He went away in the evening, as before, leaving the trees
upon the ground. My father was sallying out to carry them off in the
same way as before when my mother said, ‘Do _not_ go, Benjamin (we
always spoke in Bear language, you know, and not as I talk to you), do
_not_ go to-night, Benjamin, I beg you!’
‘Why, that unfeeling rascal has cut down all my young elms and the next
thing you know he will cut down my oaks. I will _not_ endure it,’ said
my father angrily.
‘But this is by no means certain,’ reasoned my mother. ‘He seems to
want only the elms. And at the worst we could find another cave with
oaks near it.’
‘But not with oaks and a nice river, too!’ said my father.
‘Then the child (meaning me) and I must go with you and help to do it
as quickly as possible. After it is done we will go and sleep for a
few nights in the forest over the northern hills, for my mind is very
uneasy about matters,’ said my mother.
My father laughed and said ‘GOOFF-ZUGDT,’ which, in Bear language,
means ‘Nonsense!’
So we all went out of the cave and worked away at a great rate. My
father and mother carried the largest of the young trees, and I such
of the smallest as my tender years would allow. By midnight we had
just finished and my father was carrying the last tree, when suddenly
a shout was heard and we saw a flash of torches! The trees had been
seen floating downstream, by some men who were coming to watch for the
thieves, or to see if it was the work of fairies.
‘Cross the stream, higher up, and run for the northern hills,’ shouted
my mother. At the same time she seized me by one ear in her mouth and
lugged me along till we came to the river bank. Instantly she soused
me into the water. When I came to the surface, I instantly felt my ear
again in my mother’s warm mouth, and we soon landed on the other side.
My father was not with us. We took it for granted that he had run in
some other direction, and would rejoin us shortly. The shouts, however,
followed us and so did the men with torches. My mother never once
looked behind, but ran, lugging me along by one ear, through fields and
woods, up hill and down dale. At last she laid me on some warm leaves
under thick bushes. But my father did not join us. We never saw him
again. He was captured and taken to the village.
My poor father was now lost to us; therefore, my mother set herself
busily to work at my education. She divided every day into various
portions; and although a large share was given to amusement in which
I played with several young bears of my own age, and had sometimes a
gambol with other young animals, still there was nothing that gave me
more pleasure than the lessons I received from her. For this purpose
she would generally take me into some quiet part of the wood. There,
under a wide-spreading tree, she taught my young ideas ‘how to shoot!’
One lesson in particular, I remember, as she took great pains to
impress it on my memory. I have followed the idea in all my conduct
through life and I can truly say with the best results to myself. I
will recite for you the verse which tells the lesson she taught
Oh! thou small Bear,
Learn to bear, and forbear,
And of good luck, or good friends, never despair.
A few days after I had received this lesson, I found myself placed
in a situation which needed the good advice of the little verse. An
extremely well-behaved young pig, and a very merry little fox, with
whom I was playing, asked me what I had been doing the other day near
a certain hollow tree. I told them I often collected acorns there in
the morning and went in the evening to eat them. They said no more,
and we went on playing round about the trees--and sometimes climbing
up them--that is--the merry little fox and I did this. The young wild
pig could not. But after that day, whenever I collected acorns in the
morning and put them into the hollow tree, and then went at night to
eat them, they were all gone!
One evening, however, as I was returning home after my disappointment
and wondering who it could be, I heard a laughing in the thickets, and
entering suddenly there I saw the little fox and my friend the wild
pig who were just going to run away when they saw me. They both looked
very foolish as our eyes met. So the thought struck me that they were
the thieves, and I at once accused them. The wild pig became angry
and denied that he had stolen a single acorn. He said he would not be
called a thief by anybody. The little fox said he had never eaten a
single acorn in all his life, nor had his father before him. Also, he
said he would not be called a glutton by anybody.
On hearing this I understood how it all was. ‘Jemmy,’ said I, fixing my
eyes upon the little fox, ‘Jemmy! you know very well that you stole my
acorns. We have often played together and this is the first bad trick
you have served me. You know I am quite able to punish you severely,
and take your tail away from you. But I forgive you this time.’
Then I turned to the young wild pig and said, ‘Hugo, you have _eaten_
my acorns. You know that I am stronger than you, that I could throw
my arms around your neck and give you _such_ a one! (meaning a hard
hug)--but I forbear for the sake of our old friendship. I feel sure
this will never happen again, and, no doubt, we shall all be better
friends than ever.’
At this, the little fox shed a great many tears, and continued to rub
his eyes with his little yellow brush for five minutes afterwards. The
wild young pig stood silently for some time, as if he were trying to
understand all about it. When he did speak it was only ‘_ouff_’--but I
thought he felt what I had said.
At night, when we were going to bed, I told the whole story to my
mother. She said I had acted rightly, according to what she had taught
me in the verse. ‘For what,’ said she, ‘would have been the use of
beating and squeezing the young thieves? It would not have brought back
the acorns, and would have made them both enemies in the future, ready
to steal anything. But as it is you have got two friends, and lost
nothing.’
After thinking a moment, I said, ‘Yes, Mother, but I’ve lost my acorns!’
‘They are not more lost than if you had eaten them,’ said my mother.
‘When a thing is eaten, it is lost. All you have to complain of is that
the wild young pig ate them for you. But as you have forgiven him of
course you ought to think no more of the matter. Act thus through life
toward your fellow creatures. Do so for the sake of the verse I taught
you, and trust to nature for good results. Now, child, go to sleep.’
In this manner I passed my early youth and was just coming to my full
size and strength when the dreadful thing happened which I spoke of
when I first had the honour of talking to the present company. It was
the terrible thing which made me an orphan in the world.
We were greeted one evening by a very ragged but wise old ape who had
managed to escape from the menagerie in the big city. He was disguised
as a Chinese tea-merchant, and he begged a night’s lodging, as he
thought himself out of all danger. He told us news about my poor
father. He was put in a menagerie in the village and there he grieved
himself to death.
My mother never recovered after this sad news. She made no complaint,
nor did she appear to give way to grief, but she gradually sank, and
sank. Her feet failed her and her teeth fell out. One night, in a more
than usually affectionate manner she had her last talk with me. She
told me to act always with honesty, truth, and good feeling towards
everyone; to bear all injuries and misfortunes as firmly as I could.
She begged me in all dealings to keep from feelings of revenge and
hatred. She then gave me an embrace, and told me to sleep well, and
remember her words. In the morning I found her lying dead upon the
moist green grass, with her head gently resting upon one paw.”
As the Bear uttered these last words, he seemed overcome with many
feelings and thoughts of other years. Then, suddenly rising from his
chair, he hastily put on his hat and cloak, and hurried out of the
room. His friends heard the sound of the street-door closing, and two
of the children ran on tiptoe to the window; but he was out of sight.
_Third Evening_
The next evening the children all met again, in the hope that the
Good-Natured Bear would come to finish his story.
“I am so much afraid he will never come again,” said Nancy. “What
_shall_ we do?”
“What _shall_ we do?” echoed all the children.
“For my part, I think that he will come,” said Mrs. Littlepump.
“I am sure I hope so,” said Margaret. “Dear, how my heart beats!”
“Your heart beats for Mr. Bear?” said Dr. Littlepump, looking hard at
Margaret, who instantly blushed up to her eyes, and her ears were as
red as ripe cherries.
“Oh, I do so wish----” said little Valentine, and then he stopped.
“What do you wish, Valentine?” asked Mr. Doctor, looking at his watch.
“I wish we had Jemmy here!”
“Jemmy! what Jemmy?” inquired Mr. Doctor with a serious face.
“Why, Jemmy, the merry little fox with the yellow brush tail!” said Val.
At this moment the clock struck six, and without any knocking, or
ringing, or any other announcement, the parlour door opened and in
walked Mr. Bear!
He bowed with his usual politeness; but he had a more than usual air of
gravity and some appearance of anxiety. Margaret placed his chair for
him and this seemed to please him.
“I thank you, Miss Margaret,” said he, and he soon became cheerful.
Looking around with a smile, and particularly at Margaret, he asked if
he might go on with his story.
“Oh, do, Sir!--please do!” cried a dozen voices at once. So he
continued as follows:
“I must now tell you about my own captivity, and I fear there were
several times when I did not follow my mother’s advice but really lost
my temper for some minutes. I had scarcely reached my full growth when
a party of hunters came to the forest where I lived and surprising me
while I was asleep, caught me fast in a very strong rope net. I made
a great struggle. Three of the hunters stepped a few paces back and
leveled their guns with the intention of shooting me. At this moment
an immense wild pig rushed out of a thicket and crying ‘ouff!’ charged
right upon the three hunters--knocked them all three flat upon their
backs like ninepins--and then dashed into the thicket on the opposite
side! Up jumped the three hunters, very angry, and instantly fired
their guns into the thicket after the wild pig. But he was out of their
reach. Another of the hunters was now about to thrust his spear at me
when suddenly he gave a loud cry, and flung his spear at a tree, close
to the foot of which we saw a large yellow and red brush tail whisk
round.
‘Oh,’ cried the hunter. ‘Some rascal of a fox has bitten me in the
foot!’
I need not tell you who these two forest friends were who had thus
saved my life. You have already guessed.”
“Jemmy and Hugo,” whispered the children.
“Jemmy and Hugo, grown up!” nodded Mr. Bear.
“The hunters now began to talk together about whether I might not be of
more value to them alive in a menagerie than if they killed me. They
spoke of my rich, bright, brown-coloured fur, my large size, my youth.
At length they decided to send me to a menagerie. Some of them said
that a live bear was a great trouble on a long journey.
I now saw that it was of no use to make any further struggle among so
many armed men, so I became very quiet. The cords that bound me had
become partially loose at the arms. The son of the hunter, who had
been about to kill me with his spear, happened to come close to me. I
slowly freed one paw and instead of seizing the boy roughly, I slowly
raised myself to an upright position behind his back and then patted
him gently upon the top of his head. This surprised, amused, and won
the hearts of all the hunters. They said it was quite impossible to
kill such a _good-natured bear_, and from that day they called me _The
Good-Natured Bear_.
I remember very well an event of my journey with my captors, which
led to my learning to dance. We were all seated in a pleasant wood at
sunset. One of the men drew forth a clarionet, another a horn and began
to play. For the first time in my life I heard what you call music. I
was filled with joy, and, being quite unable to control myself, I rose
on my hind legs of my own accord, and stepped in time to the music.
At this the hunters loosened the ropes which held me and gave me more
freedom. In this upright position I stepped to the middle of an open
green space and continued to keep time to the merry tune which was
played. The hunters shouted and laughed and laughed and shouted. The
music became faster and louder. Round and round I waltzed, and the
trees all began to dance round me, too. Then the green ground span
round about, carrying all the hunters and the music in a swift, dizzy
circle round me. I feared I was going mad and I determined to save
myself. Therefore, I collected all my willpower and stopped turning.
The instant I stood still, the ground slipped from beneath my feet, and
away I rolled to the bottom of a hill, where I fell asleep.
From this time, I continually practised walking upright. At first it
was very difficult to walk for any distance on my hind feet. I could
not help bending my nose and looking all down my right side, then all
down my left side, and so from side to side, for I seemed such a height
above the ground. Also, in order to keep my balance, I was obliged to
give my weight first on one leg, then on the other, without lifting
them from the ground.
My captors took me to a menagerie, where I was more than comfortable.
My food was very good and my water was always clear and fresh. I also
had far more liberty than any other animal. I believe this kindness was
shown me because I showed no anger or hatred towards anyone, also, I
was very careful not to frighten or hurt any of the children, who came
near me.
In time I became the principal object of attraction in this menagerie.
Crowds came daily and stood in front of my cell and looked, and
pointed, and often spoke to me till at last I came to see that I
was regarded as a surprising example of wisdom, although I did not
understand one word they spoke to me, except when they also made signs.
Sometimes, however, I was able to connect sounds with signs, so that I
actually learned the meaning of many words. Then first came to me the
great desire to learn human speech. I thought since I had learned the
meaning of many words why could I not learn many more? And when I had
learned certain sounds thoroughly why could I not imitate those words,
so as to speak as well as understand?
I determined to do this if possible and I studied very hard. I listened
very carefully all day to those whom I heard speaking and at night I
practised my voice. At first I could make no sound at all like words,
but only strange noises, so that it woke some of the animals, who made
a great grumbling, and three of the monkeys mocked me for a week after,
chattering, pointing, and making mouths at me. However, I went on
trying, and at the end of four years, I understood nearly all that was
said to me, even without signs, and could pronounce a number of words
very well, though, of course, with rather a foreign accent. I proved
this to myself upon two or three occasions, when it was dark and no
one knew where the voice came from. By the answers I received I always
found that what I had said was understood. Nevertheless, I kept all
this a secret.
By this time I was made a show of by myself, and separated from all
the other animals in one large corner, which was parted off by a green
curtain in front. An additional price was charged to see me. I did
not know what in the world they might do with me, if they found they
possessed a Bear who could talk! I often longed to be free. I was very
tired indeed of this kind of crowding and staring life, and I longed
for the beautiful quiet of my native woods. But there seemed no hope of
escape.
In the ninth year of my captivity and, I may add, of my private
studies, I was sent round the country in a caravan with three keepers
who made a great deal of money by me, at the various fairs and markets.
I was called on the placards outside, ‘The Intellectual Bear!’
There was also another captive in the caravan,--a large serpent. I
tried to be friendly with him but he never noticed me. He was usually
asleep, rolled up on a heap of blankets, in a box. When he was awake
his eyes were generally shut, and he seemed in a sort of a stupid
trance so that we formed no acquaintance. I longed more than ever for
my liberty.
One night--it was a hot night in June--after a long journey, while our
keepers were away at supper the serpent broke open his box. Presently
his head went slowly gliding up to one of the windows, and moved all
over the inside shutter. It had not been properly locked, and it opened
a little way. Upon this, the serpent raised himself upwards by his
mouth, opening the shutter gradually as he rose, till he had coiled
about half his body up against the window-frame, and then, with a
slow pressure--he burst it open. The next moment he dropped silently
through the opening--and was gone!