hands of each, and promised that if she should some day pass through
the town where they lived, she would come and visit them; and then away
she rode. Kay and Gerda took each other’s hand: it was lovely spring
weather, with abundance of flowers and of verdure. The church-bells
rang, and the children recognized the high towers, and the large town;
it was that in which they dwelt. They entered, and hastened up to
their grandmother’s room, where everything was standing as formerly.
The clock said, “Tick! tock!” and the finger moved round; but as they
entered, they remarked that they were now grown up. The roses on the
roof hung blooming in at the open window; there stood the little
children’s chairs, and Kay and Gerda sat down on them, holding each
other by the hand; they both had forgotten the cold, empty splendour of
the Snow-Queen, as though it had been a dream. The grandmother sat in
the bright sunshine, and read aloud from the Bible: “Unless ye become
as little children, ye cannot enter the kingdom of heaven.”
And Kay and Gerda looked in each other’s eyes, and all at once they
understood the old hymn:--
“The rose in the valley is blooming so sweet,
The Christ-child is there the children to greet.”
There sat the two grown-up persons; grown up, and yet children;
children at least in heart: and it was summer-time; summer, glorious
summer!
A MERRY TALE OF THE KING AND THE COBBLER
It was the custom of King Henry the Eighth to disguise himself and
walk late in the night into the city of London, to observe how the
constables, and watchmen performed their duty, not only in guarding
the city gates, but also, in diligently watching the inner part of
the city, to observe what went on in the streets. This he did oftimes
returning home to Whitehall early in the morning without its being
discovered who he was. Now, on returning home through the Strand he
often took notice of a certain cobbler who was always up at work,
whistling and singing every morning. So, resolving to see him, the
king knocked off the heel of his shoe, by hitting it against a stone.
Having so done he bounced against the stall.
“Who is there?” cried the cobbler opening his stall door. The king
asked him if he could fit on his heel.
“Yes, that I can,” said the cobbler. “So sit thee down and I will do it
for thee straightway.”
The cobbler laid aside his awls and old shoes to make room for the king
to sit by him. The king was hardly able to keep from laughing at the
cobbler’s manner. He then asked him, “Is there not a house near where I
can get a cup of good ale, and the people up?”
“Yes,” said the cobbler, “there is an inn over the way, where I think
the folks are up, for carriers go from there very early every morning.”
With that the king borrowed an old shoe of the cobbler and went with
him over to the inn, desiring him to bring his shoe over there, as soon
as he had mended it. The cobbler promised that he would; so making as
much haste as he could, he carried it over to the king saying, “Honest
blade, here is thy shoe. I’ll warrant thee, the heel will not come off
again in haste.”
“Well,” said the king, “as thou art an honest, merry fellow, here is
sixpence for thee. Come, sit down by me and I will drink with thee.
Here’s a good health to the king!”
“With all my heart,” said the cobbler. “I will pledge thee that were it
only in water.”
So the cobbler sat down by the king and was very merry. He sang some of
his merry songs and catches at which the king laughed heartily, and was
very pleasant with the cobbler, telling him, withal, that his name was
Harry Tudor and that he belonged to the court and that if the cobbler
would come to see him there, he would make him very welcome because he
was such a merry companion. He charged him to come and not forget his
name, and to ask anyone about the court for him. “For,” said the king,
“I am well known there. They will bring you to me.”
Now the cobbler little dreamed that it was the king that spoke to him,
much less that the king’s name was Harry Tudor. Therefore, with a
great deal of confidence, he stood up, and pulled off his hat and gave
the king many thanks, telling him that he was one of the most honest
fellows he had ever met in all his life, and that, though he had never
been at court, it would not be long before he would make a holiday and
come to see him. Whereupon the king, having discharged the reckoning
for what he had had, would have taken leave, but the cobbler, taking
the king by the hand said, “By my faith! thou shalt not go yet; thou
shalt first go and see my poor habitation, for thou art the most honest
blade I ever met, and I love an honest, merry companion with all my
heart.”
So the cobbler took the king with him, over the way, where he had a
cellar adjoining his stall; which was handsomely furnished for a man of
his calling. Into the cellar he led the king.
“There,” said he, “sit thee down, thou art welcome; but I must desire
thee to speak softly for fear of waking my wife, Joan, who is in her
bed nearby, for, if she should wake, she would certainly make our ears
ring.”
At this speech of the cobbler’s the king laughed, and told him he would
be mindful to follow his directions.
So the cobbler kindled a fire and fetched a brown loaf, from which
he cut a large slice of bread. This he set before the fire. Then he
brought forth a Cheshire cheese.
“Come,” said he, “wilt thou eat some cheese? There’s as much good
fellowship in eating, as in drinking.” This made the king admire the
freedom of the cobbler. Having eaten a piece, the cobbler began,
“Here’s a health to all true hearts and merry companions,” at which the
king smilingly said, “I’ll pledge thee, old friend, I’ll pledge thee.”
In this manner they ate and drank together, until almost break of day.
The cobbler became very free with the king, pleasing the king with
several of his old stories.
But suddenly, the cobbler’s old wife, Joan, began to show signs of
waking.
“In faith,” said the cobbler, “you must be gone now, for my wife,
Joan, begins to grumble. She will wake presently and I would not, for
all the shoes in my shop, that she should find thee here.”
So taking the king upstairs he said, “Farewell, honest blade, it shall
not be long before I make a holiday and come to see thee at court.”
The king replied, “Thou shalt be kindly welcome.”
So they parted, the king going on his way to Whitehall, and the cobbler
back to his cellar where he put all things to rights before his wife,
Joan, appeared. He went to work again whistling and singing as merry
as he used to do, much satisfied that he had happened on such a good
companion, and very much delighted at thinking of the merry time he
would have when he went to court.
As soon as the king reached home, he gave orders to all about the court
that if anyone inquired for him by the name of Harry Tudor, the person
should be brought before him, without further examination.
To the cobbler every day seemed a month until he had been at court to
see his new acquaintance. But he was much troubled how he should get
leave of his wife, Joan. He could not go without her knowledge for he
had resolved to make himself as fine as ever he could and his wife,
Joan, always kept his holiday clothes. One evening as they sat at
supper, she being in good humour, he began to lay open his mind to her
and tell her the whole story of the acquaintance, repeating over and
over again that Harry Tudor was the most honest man he had ever met.
“Husband,” said Joan, “because you have been so generous as to tell me
the truth, I shall give you leave to take a holiday. You shall go to
court and I will make you as fine as possible.”
So it was agreed that he might go the next day.
Joan arose the next morning to brush her husband’s clothes and to make
him look as snug as could be. She washed and ironed his lace band, and
made his shoes shine, till he could see his face in them. When this
was done she made her husband arise and dressed him carefully in his
best clothes.
The cobbler being thus equipped in his best strutted through the
streets, like a crow, thinking himself very fine indeed. In this manner
he came to court, staring at this person and that, as he walked up and
down, and not knowing anyone to ask for but Harry Tudor. At last he
spied one as he thought in the dress of a serving man. To him he made
his address, saying, “Dost thou hear, honest fellow, dost thou know one
Harry Tudor who belongs to the court?”
“Yes,” said the man, “follow me; and I will take you to him.”
With that he took him presently into the guard-chamber, telling one of
the yeomen of the guard that here was a man who was inquiring for Harry
Tudor.
The yeoman replied, “I know him very well, and if you please to go
along with me, I will bring you to him immediately.”
So the cobbler followed the yeoman much admiring the finery of the
rooms through which he passed and thinking within himself that the
yeoman was not very unlike the person he inquired after. “He, whom I
look for,” said he, “is a plain, merry, honest fellow. His name is
Harry Tudor. I suppose he may be some fine lord or other about the
court.”
“I tell you, friend,” replied the yeoman, “I do not know him very well.
Do but follow me and I will bring you to him straightway.”
So they went on and soon reached the room where the king sat surrounded
by many of his nobles. As soon as the yeoman had drawn aside the
curtains he called out saying, “May it please your majesty, here is one
that inquires for Harry Tudor.”
The cobbler hearing this and thinking he had committed no less
than treason took to his heels and ran for his life. But not being
acquainted with the several turnings and rooms through which he had
come, he was soon overtaken and brought before the king, whom the
cobbler little thought to be the person he was inquiring for. He
therefore, fell on his knees saying, “May it please your Grace, I am
a poor cobbler and inquired for one called Harry Tudor, who is a very
honest fellow. I mended the heel of his shoe not long ago, for which
he paid me nobly. I had him afterwards to my own cellar, where we were
very merry, till my wife, Joan, began to wake, which put an end to our
merriment, for that time. But I told him that I surely would come to
court to see him, as soon as I conveniently could.”
“Well,” said the king, “rise up and be not afraid! Look well about you.
Perhaps you may find the fellow in this company.”
The cobbler arose and looked wistfully upon the king and his nobles,
but to no purpose; for, although he thought he saw something in the
king’s face which he had seen before, yet, he could not imagine him to
be Harry Tudor, the heel of whose shoe he had mended, and who had been
so merry with him, both at the inn and in his own cellar.
He therefore told the king he did not expect to find Harry Tudor among
such fine folks as he saw there, but the person that he looked for was
a plain, honest, true-hearted fellow, adding withal, that he was sure
if Harry Tudor did but know that he had come to court he would make him
welcome.
At this speech of the cobbler, the king had much to do to forbear
laughing; but keeping his countenance as well as he could, he said to
the yeoman of the guard, “Here, take this honest cobbler down into
the cellar and I will give orders that Harry Tudor shall come to him
presently.”
So away went the cobbler ready to leap out of his skin for joy, not
only that he had gotten off so well in his meeting with the king, but
also that he should soon see his friend, Harry Tudor, again.
The cobbler had not been long in the cellar before the king came into
him, in the same clothes he had on when the cobbler mended his shoe.
The cobbler knew him immediately and ran to him and kissed him, saying,
“Honest Harry, I have made a holiday on purpose to come and see you,
but I had much to do to get leave of my wife, Joan, who was loathe I
should lose so much time from my work, but I was resolved to see you.
So I made myself as fine as I could. But I’ll tell you, Harry, when I
came to court, I was in a pack of trouble how to find you out. At last
I met a man who told me he knew you very well, and that he would bring
me to you. But instead of doing so he brought me before the king, who
has almost frightened me to death. But in good faith,” continued the
cobbler, “I am resolved to be merry with you, since I have the good
fortune to find you at last.”
“Ay, so you shall,” replied the king, “we will be as merry as princes.”
With that they drank together the king’s health.
“Honest Harry, I will pledge thee with all my heart.”
Now after the cobbler had made merry, he began to sing some of his old
songs and catches. This pleased the king very much and made him laugh
most heartily. All of a sudden a group of nobles came into the cellar
richly dressed. They stood with heads uncovered bowing before Harry
Tudor. This amazed the cobbler very much but recovering himself he
looked more closely upon Harry Tudor and presently he knew him to be
the king whom he had seen in the Presence Chamber.
He immediately fell upon his knees, saying, “May it please your
Majesty, I am an honest cobbler and meant no harm.”
“No, no,” said the king, “nor shall receive any here, I promise you.”
He commanded the cobbler, therefore, to rise and be as merry as he
was before; and though he knew him to be the king yet he should use
the same freedom with him as he did when he mended his shoe. This
kind speech of the king’s put the cobbler in as good humour as he was
before. He told the king many of his best stories and he sang more of
his jolly songs, very much to the satisfaction of the king and his
nobles.
Now the king, considering the pleasant humours of the cobbler, how
innocently merry he was, and free from any design, and how he laboured
very hard, and took a great deal of pains for a small livelihood, was
pleased, out of his princely grace and favour to allot him a liberal
annuity of forty marks a year for the better support of his jolly
humours and the maintenance of himself and his wife Joan. The king
ordered that he should be admitted as one of the courtiers.
This was so much beyond his highest expectations that it pleased him
greatly, much to the satisfaction of the king.
So after some bows and scrapes, he returned to his wife, Joan, with the
joyful news of his kind reception at court.
From GAMMER GURTON’S HISTORIE.
THE STORY OF MERRYMIND
FRANCES BROWNE
Once upon a time there lived in the north country a certain poor man
and his wife, who had two corn-fields, three cows, five sheep, and
thirteen children. Twelve of these children were called by names common
in the north country--Hardhead, Stiffneck, Tightfingers, and the like;
but when the thirteenth came to be named, either the poor man and his
wife could remember no other name, or something in the child’s look
made them think it proper, for they called him Merrymind, which the
neighbours thought a strange name, and very much above their station;
however, as they showed no other signs of pride, the neighbours let
that pass. Their thirteen children grew taller and stronger every year,
and they had hard work to keep them in bread; but when the youngest
was old enough to look after his father’s sheep, there happened the
great fair, to which everybody in the north country went, because it
came only once in seven years. It was held on midsummer-day, not in any
town or village, but on a green plain, lying between a broad river and
a high hill, where it was said the fairies used to dance in old and
merry times.
Merchants and dealers of all sorts crowded to that fair from far and
near. There was nothing known in the north country that could not be
bought or sold in it, and neither old nor young were willing to go
home without a fairing. The poor man who owned this large family could
afford them little to spend in such ways; but as the fair happened
only once in seven years, he would not show a poor spirit. Therefore,
calling them about him, he opened the leathern bag in which his savings
were stored, and gave every one of the thirteen a silver penny.
The boys and girls had never before owned so much pocket-money; and,
wondering what they should buy, they dressed themselves in their
holiday clothes, and set out with their father and mother to the fair.
When they came near the ground that midsummer morning, the stalls,
heaped up with all manner of merchandise, from gingerbread upwards, the
tents for fun and feasting, the puppet-shows, the rope-dancers, and the
crowd of neighbours and strangers, all in their best attire, made those
simple people think their north country fair the finest sight in the
world. The day wore away in seeing wonders, and in chatting with old
friends. It was surprising how far silver pennies went in those days;
but before evening twelve of the thirteen had got fairly rid of their
money. One bought a pair of brass buckles, another a crimson riband,
a third green garters; the father bought a tobacco-pipe, the mother
a horn snuffbox--in short, all had provided themselves with fairings
except Merrymind.
The cause of the silver penny remaining in his pocket was that he had
set his heart upon a fiddle; and fiddles enough there were in the
fair--small and large, plain and painted: he looked at and priced
most of them, but there was not one that came within the compass of a
silver penny. His father and mother warned him to make haste with his
purchase, for they must all go home at sunset because the way was long.
The sun was getting low and red upon the hill; the fair was growing
thin, for many dealers had packed up their stalls and departed; but
there was a mossy hollow in the great hillside, to which the outskirts
of the fair had reached, and Merrymind thought he would see what
might be there. The first thing was a stall of fiddles, kept by a
young merchant from a far country, who had many customers, his goods
being fine and new; but hard by sat a little gray-haired man, at whom
everybody had laughed that day, because he had nothing on his stall but
one old dingy fiddle, and all its strings were broken. Nevertheless,
the little man sat as stately, and cried, “Fiddles to sell!” as if he
had the best stall in the fair.
“Buy a fiddle, my young master?” he said, as Merrymind came forward.
“You shall have it cheap: I ask but a silver penny for it; and if the
strings were mended, its like would not be in the north country.”
Merrymind thought this a great bargain. He was a handy boy, and could
mend the strings while watching his father’s sheep. So down went the
silver penny on the little man’s stall, and up went the fiddle under
Merrymind’s arm.
“Now, my young master,” said the little man, “you see that we merchants
have a deal to look after, and if you help me to bundle up my stall, I
will tell you a wonderful piece of news about that fiddle.”
Merrymind was good-natured and fond of news, so he helped him to tie up
the loose boards and sticks that composed his stall with ah old rope,
and when they were hoisted on his back like a fagot, the little man
said:
“About that fiddle, my young master: it is certain the strings
can never be mended, nor made new, except by threads from the
night-spinners, which, if you get, it will be a good pennyworth,” and
up the hill he ran like a greyhound.
Merrymind thought that was queer news, but being given to hope the
best, he believed the little man was only jesting, and made haste to
join the rest of the family, who were soon on their way home. When they
got there everyone showed his bargain, and Merrymind showed his fiddle;
but his brothers and sisters laughed at him for buying such a thing
when he had never learned to play. His sisters asked him what music he
could bring out of broken strings; and his father said:
“Thou hast shown little prudence in laying out thy first penny, from
which token I fear thou wilt never have many to lay out.”
In short, everybody threw scorn on Merrymind’s bargain except his
mother. She, good woman, said if he laid out one penny ill, he might
lay out the next better; and who knew but his fiddle would be of use
some day? To make her words good, Merrymind fell to repairing the
strings--he spent all his time, both night and day, upon them; but,
true to the little man’s parting words, no mending would stand, and
no string would hold on that fiddle. Merrymind tried everything, and
wearied himself to no purpose. At last he thought of inquiring after
people who spun at night; and this seemed such a good joke to the north
country people that they wanted no other till the next fair.
In the meantime, Merrymind lost credit at home and abroad. Everybody
believed in his father’s prophecy; his brothers and sisters valued
him no more than a herd-boy; the neighbours thought he must turn out
a scape-grace. Still the boy would not part with his fiddle. It was
his silver pennyworth, and he had a strong hope of mending the strings
for all that had come and gone; but since nobody at home cared for him
except his mother, and as she had twelve other children, he resolved to
leave the scorn behind him, and go to seek his fortune.
The family were not very sorry to hear of that intention, being in a
manner ashamed of him; besides, they could spare one out of thirteen.
His father gave him a barley cake, and his mother her blessing. All his
brothers and sisters wished him well. Most of the neighbours hoped
that no harm would happen to him; and Merrymind set out one summer
morning with the broken-stringed fiddle under his arm.
There were no highways then in the north country--people took whatever
path pleased them best; so Merrymind went over the fair ground and up
the hill, hoping to meet the little man, and learn something of the
night-spinners. The hill was covered with heather to the top, and he
went up without meeting anyone. On the other side it was steep and
rocky, and after a hard scramble down, he came to a narrow glen all
overgrown with wild furze and brambles. Merrymind had never met with
briars so sharp, but he was not the boy to turn back readily, and
pressed on in spite of torn clothes and scratched hands, till he came
to the end of the glen, where two paths met: one of them wound through
a pinewood, he knew not how far, but it seemed green and pleasant. The
other was a rough, stony way leading to a wide valley surrounded by
high hills, and overhung by a dull, thick mist, though it was yet early
in the summer evening.
Merrymind was weary with his long journey, and stood thinking of what
path to choose, when, by the way of the valley, there came an old man
as tall and large as any three men of the north country. His white hair
and beard hung like tangled flax about him! his clothes were made of
sackcloth; and on his back he carried a heavy burden of dust heaped
high in a great pannier.
“Listen to me, you lazy vagabond!” he said, coming near to Merrymind.
“If you take the way through the wood I know not what will happen to
you; but if you choose this path you must help me with my pannier, and
I can tell you it’s no trifle.”
“Well, father,” said Merrymind, “you seem tired, and I am younger than
you, though not quite so tall; so, if you please, I will choose this
way, and help you along with the pannier.”
Scarce had he spoken when the huge man caught hold of him, firmly bound
one side of the pannier to his shoulders with the same strong rope
that fastened it on his own back, and never ceased scolding and calling
him names as they marched over the stony ground together. It was a
rough way and a heavy burden, and Merrymind wished himself a thousand
times out of the old man’s company, but there was no getting off; and
at length, in hopes of beguiling the way, and putting him in better
humour, he began to sing an old rhyme which his mother had taught him.
By this time they had entered the valley, and the night had fallen very
dark and cold. The old man ceased scolding, and by a feeble glimmer of
the moonlight, which now began to shine, Merrymind saw that they were
close by a deserted cottage, for its doors stood open to the night
winds. Here the old man paused, and loosed the rope from his own and
Merrymind’s shoulders.
“For seven times seven years,” he said, “have I carried this pannier,
and no one ever sang while helping me before. Night releases all men,
so I release you. Where will you sleep--by my kitchen-fire, or in that
cold cottage?”
Merrymind thought he had got quite enough of the old man’s society, and
therefore answered:
“The cottage, good father, if you please.”
“A sound sleep to you, then!” said the old man, and he went off with
his pannier.
Merrymind stepped into the deserted cottage. The moon was shining
through door and window, for the mist was gone, and the night looked
clear as day; but in all the valley he could hear no sound, nor was
there any trace of inhabitants in the cottage. The hearth looked as
if there had not been a fire there for years. A single article of
furniture was not to be seen; but Merrymind was sore weary, and, laying
himself down in a corner, with his fiddle close by, he fell fast asleep.