sleep there came a sweet sound of singing voices and spinning-wheels
and Merrymind thought he must have been dreaming when he opened his
eyes next morning on the bare and solitary house. The beautiful night
was gone, and the heavy mist had come back. There was no blue sky,
no bright sun to be seen. The light was cold and grey, like that of
mid-winter; but Merrymind ate the half of his barley cake, drank from a
stream hard by, and went out to see the valley.
It was full of inhabitants, and they were all busy in houses, in
fields, in mills, and in forges. The men hammered and delved; the
women scrubbed and scoured; the very children were hard at work; but
Merrymind could hear neither talk nor laughter among them. Every face
looked careworn and cheerless, and every word was something about work
or gain.
Merrymind thought this unreasonable, for everybody there appeared
rich. The women scrubbed in silk, the men delved in scarlet. Crimson
curtains, marble floors, and shelves of silver tankards were to be seen
in every house; but their owners took neither ease nor pleasure in
them, and everyone laboured as it were for life.
The birds of that valley did not sing--they were too busy pecking
and building. The cats did not lie by the fire--they were all on the
watch for mice. The dogs went out after hares on their own account. The
cattle and sheep grazed as if they were never to get another mouthful;
and the herdsmen were all splitting wood or making baskets.
In the midst of the valley there stood a stately castle, but instead
of park and gardens, brew-houses and washing-greens lay round it. The
gates stood open, and Merrymind ventured in. The courtyard was full
of coopers. They were churning in the banquet hall. They were making
cheese on the dais, and spinning and weaving in all its principal
chambers. In the highest tower of that busy castle, at a window from
which she could see the whole valley, there sat a noble lady. Her dress
was rich, but of a dingy drab colour. Her hair was iron-grey; her look
was sour and gloomy. Round her sat twelve maidens of the same aspect,
spinning on ancient distaffs, and the lady spun as hard as they, but
all the yarn they made was jet black.
No one in or out of the castle would reply to Merrymind’s salutations,
nor answer him any questions. The rich men pulled out their purses,
saying, “Come and work for wages!” The poor men said, “We have no time
to talk!” and a child by a cottage-door said it must go to work. All
day Merrymind wandered about with his broken-stringed fiddle, and all
day he saw the great old man marching round and round the valley with
his heavy burden of dust.
“It is the dreariest valley that ever I beheld!” he said to himself.
“And no place to mend my fiddle in; but one would not like to go away
without knowing what has come over the people, or if they have always
worked so hard and heavily.”
By this time the night again came on: he knew it by the clearing mist
and the rising moon. The people began to hurry home in all directions.
Silence came over house and field; and near the deserted cottage
Merrymind met the old man.
“Good father,” he said, “I pray you tell me what sport or pastime have
the people of this valley?”
“Sport and pastime!” cried the old man, in great wrath. “Where did you
hear of the like? We work by day and sleep by night. There is no sport
in Dame Dreary’s land!” and, with a hearty scolding for his idleness
and levity, he left Merrymind to sleep once more in the cottage.
That night the boy did not sleep so sound: though too drowsy to open
his eyes, he was sure there had been singing and spinning near him all
night; and, resolving to find out what this meant before he left the
valley, Merrymind ate the other half of his barley cake, drank again
from the stream, and went out to see the country.
The same heavy mist shut out sun and sky; the same hard work went
forward wherever he turned his eyes; and the great old man with the
dust-pannier strode on his accustomed round. Merrymind could find no
one to answer a single question; rich and poor wanted him to work still
more earnestly than the day before; and fearing that some of them
might press him into service, he wandered away to the furthest end of
the valley.
There there was no work, for the land lay bare and lonely, and was
bounded by grey crags, as high and steep as any castle-wall. There
was no passage or outlet but through a great iron gate secured with a
heavy padlock: close by it stood a white tent, and in the door a tall
soldier, with one arm, stood smoking a long pipe. He was the first idle
man Merrymind had seen in the valley, and his face looked to him like
that of a friend; so coming up with his best bow, the boy said:
“Honourable master soldier, please to tell me what country is this, and
why do the people work so hard?”
“Are you a stranger in this place, that you ask such questions?”
answered the soldier.
“Yes,” said Merrymind, “I came but the evening before yesterday.”
“Then I am sorry for you, for here you must remain. My orders are to
let everybody in and nobody out; and the giant with the dust-pannier
guards the other entrance night and day,” said the soldier.
“That is bad news,” said Merrymind, “but since I am here, please to
tell me why were such laws made, and what is the story of this valley?”
“Hold my pipe, and I will tell you,” said the soldier, “for nobody else
will take the time. This valley belongs to the lady of yonder castle,
whom, for seven times seven years, men have called Dame Dreary. She
had another name in her youth--they called her Lady Littlecare; and
then the valley was the fairest spot in all the north country. The sun
shone brightest there; the summers lingered longest. Fairies danced
on the hill-tops; singing-birds sat on all the trees. Strongarm, the
last of the giants, kept the pine-forest, and hewed yule logs out of
it, when he was not sleeping in the sun. Two fair maidens, clothed
in white, with silver wheels on their shoulders, came by night and
spun golden threads by the hearth of every cottage. The people wore
homespun, and drank out of horn; but they had merry times. There were
May-games, harvest-homes, and Christmas cheer among them. Shepherds
piped on the hillsides, reapers sang in the fields, and laughter came
with the red firelight out of every house in the evening. All that
was changed, nobody knows how, for the old folks who remembered it
are dead. Some say it was because of a magic ring which fell from the
lady’s finger; some, because of a spring in the castle-court which
went dry. However it was, the lady turned Dame Dreary. Hard work and
hard times overspread the valley. The mist came down; the fairies
departed; the giant Strongarm grew old, and took up a burden of dust;
and the night-spinners were seen no more in any man’s dwelling. They
say it will be so till Dame Dreary lays down her distaff, and dances;
but all the fiddlers of the north country have tried their merriest
tunes to no purpose. The king is a wise prince and a great warrior. He
has filled two treasure-houses, and conquered all his enemies; but he
cannot change the order of Dame Dreary’s land. I cannot tell you what
great rewards he offered to one who could do it; but when no good came
of his offers, the king feared that similar fashions might spread among
his people, and therefore made a law that whomsoever entered should not
leave it. His majesty took me captive in war, and placed me here to
keep the gate, and save his subjects trouble. If I had not brought my
pipe with me, I should have been working as hard as any of them by this
time, with my one arm. Young master, if you take my advice you will
learn to smoke.”
“If my fiddle were mended it would be better,” said Merrymind; and he
sat talking with the soldier till the mist began to clear and the moon
to rise, and then he went home to sleep in the deserted cottage.
It was late when he came near it, and the moonlight looked lovely
beside the misty day. Merrymind thought it was a good time for trying
to get out of the valley. There was no foot abroad, and no appearance
of the giant; but as Merrymind drew near to where the two paths
met, there was he fast asleep beside a fire of pinecones, with his
pannier at his head, and a heap of stones close by him. “Is that your
kitchen-fire?” thought the boy to himself, and he tried to steal past;
but Strongarm started up, pursued him with stones, and called him bad
names halfway back to the cottage.
Merrymind was glad to run the whole way for fear of him. The door was
still open, and the moon was shining in; but by the lifeless hearth
there sat two fair maidens, all in white, spinning on silver wheels,
and singing together a blithe and pleasant tune like the larks on
May-morning. Merrymind could have listened all night, but suddenly he
bethought him that these must be the night-spinners, whose threads
would mend his fiddle; so, stepping with reverence and good courage, he
said:
“Honourable ladies, I pray you give a poor boy a thread to mend his
fiddle-strings.”
“For seven times seven years,” said the fair maidens, “have we spun by
night in this deserted cottage, and no mortal has seen or spoken to us.
Go and gather sticks through all the valley to make a fire for us on
this cold hearth, and each of us will give you a thread for your pains.”
Merrymind took his broken fiddle with him, and went through all the
valley gathering sticks by the moonlight; but so careful were the
people of Dame Dreary’s land, that scarce a stick could be found, and
the moon was gone and the misty day had come before he was able to come
back with a small fagot. The cottage-door was still open; the fair
maidens and their silver wheels were gone; but on the floor where they
sat lay two long threads of gold.
Merrymind first heaped up his fagot on the hearth, to be ready against
their coming at night, and next took up the golden threads to mend his
fiddle. Then he learned the truth of the little man’s saying at the
fair, for no sooner were the strings fastened with those golden threads
than they became firm. The old dingy fiddle, too, began to shine and
glisten, and at length it was golden also. This sight made Merrymind
so joyful that, unlearned as he was in music, the boy tried to play.
Scarce had his bow touched the strings when they began to play of
themselves the same blithe and pleasant tune which the night-spinners
sang together.
“Some of the workers will stop for the sake of this tune,” said
Merrymind, and he went out along the valley with his fiddle. The music
filled the air; the busy people heard it; and never was such a day
seen in Dame Dreary’s land. The men paused in their delving, the women
stopped their scrubbing; the little children dropped their work; and
everyone stood still in their places while Merrymind and his fiddle
passed on. When he came to the castle, the coopers cast down their
tools in the court; the churning and cheese-making ceased in the
banquet hall; the looms and spinning-wheels stopped in the principal
chambers; and Dame Dreary’s distaff stood still in her hand.
Merrymind played through the halls and up the tower-stairs. As he
came near, the dame cast down her distaff, and danced with all her
might. All her maidens did the like; and as they danced she grew young
again--the sourness passed from her looks, and the greyness from her
hair. They brought her the dress of white and cherry colour she used
to wear in her youth, and she was no longer Dame Dreary, but the Lady
Littlecare, with golden hair, and laughing eyes, and cheeks like summer
roses.
Then a sound of merrymaking came up from the whole valley. The heavy
mist rolled away from the hills; the sun shone out; the blue sky was
seen; a clear spring gushed up in the castle-court; a white falcon came
from the east with a golden ring, and put it on the lady’s finger.
After that Strongarm broke the rope, tossed the pannier of dust from
his shoulder, and lay down to sleep in the sun. That night the fairies
danced on the hill-tops; and the night-spinners, with their silver
wheels, were seen by every hearth, and no more in the deserted cottage.
Everybody praised Merrymind and his fiddle; and when news of his
wonderful playing came to the king’s ears, he commanded the iron gate
to be taken away; he made the captive soldier a freeman; and promoted
Merrymind to be his first fiddler, which under that wise monarch was
the highest post in his kingdom.
As soon as Merrymind’s family and neighbours heard of the high
preferment his fiddle had gained for him, they thought music must be
a good thing, and man, woman, and child took to fiddling. It is said
that none of them ever learned to play a single tune except Merrymind’s
mother, on whom her son bestowed great presents.
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:
Italicized text is surrounded by underscores: _italics_.
Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.
Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized.
Page number errors in the Table of Contents have been corrected.