procession was going on, no one dared to speak; and, beckoning the
fierce creature to come behind the rock, John met it with an open knife,
aiming so skilfully as to cut the fish open its entire length. The idea
now occurred to him to place himself within the body of his dead enemy,
which he promptly did, and to his joy, could swim out unobserved, and
take his place at the bride's right hand. Just as Emma was about to say
"I will," the sentry-fish managed to place in her hand the little gold
cross that was once her mother's. The queen-elect looked at the cross in
surprise, and as all had passed so quickly, not even the king understood
why her head drooped forward, and she seemed about to faint. The
sentry-fish whispered in her ear:
"It is I--John--your brother; be brave, and find some excuse for putting
off the wedding, and we may yet be saved."
So long as Emma wore the crown of violets, she was unable entirely to
break the charm they cast over her. But the little cross was a powerful
reminder of her life on earth; and while she held it, she appeared to be
awakening from a trance. Excusing herself to the king on the ground of
illness, she was supported to her coral couch, and was surrounded by her
mermaidens. The king ordered the crowd to withdraw, and soon the
disappointed revellers went away, feeling blue and cross, while his
majesty himself was in a terrible way, tramping up and down, tearing his
green locks, and casting himself on his knees beside Emma, imploring her
to speak to him once more.
In vain! Emma's eyes were now obstinately closed, and her cheeks were
like marble. The faithful sentry-fish, whose duty it was to patrol the
grotto, swam up and down before the couch, and every time he passed near
Emma he whispered, "Be brave. I am here. Soon I will rescue you. Give no
sign of life."
At last the king took the advice of an old dowager mermaid, and left
Emma to herself, consenting to go outside the grotto and smoke a seaweed
cigarette, until his bride should be ready to go on with the interrupted
wedding.
John spied in the train of mermaidens the little creature whose harp he
had restored, and very cautiously, for fear of alarming her, he made
himself known. The pretty mermaid laughed and cried hysterically, when
she heard his story, and consented to aid him still further by removing
the crown of violets from Emma's head. Soon there was heard a great
whispering among the mermaid band, and one of the boldest of them
ventured to suggest to the dowager lady-in-waiting, that one reason for
her majesty's continued swoon might be that her hair was plaited too
tight. The dowager, for a wonder, took the suggestion in good part. She
ordered the attendants to unpin her majesty's long golden braids, and in
so doing the fatal crown fell to the ground unnoticed.
The blood rushed into Emma's face; she sighed, and opening her eyes,
looked about her. There was the band of anxious mermaids, and a solitary
sentry-fish swimming up and down. In next passing her, he whispered,
"Order your attendants to withdraw." This was soon done, only the
friendly little mermaid remaining at Emma's side. John, throwing off his
disguise, clasped his sister in his arms, and warm tears of human
happiness rushed from Emma's eyes. Trampling under foot the crown of
violets, and keeping firm hold of her mother's cross, she begged John to
bear her back to their own world without delay. Cautiously putting on
his fish garb, John swam to the door to reconnoitre the situation. He
found there, on guard, only one of the shark sentries, who had taken so
much sea-beer, in honor of the king's wedding-day, that John's knife
made quick work in despatching him.
And now the way seemed open for their flight. The brother and sister
bade farewell to the friendly mermaid, who pledged herself never to
reveal the secret of Emma's escape, and started to leave the grotto.
Suddenly, lashing the sea in his wrath and fury, both of his fierce
mouths spiked with rows of terrible teeth, came the other double-headed
shark! John still wore his Chanliodus disguise, and, without a moment's
hesitation, dashed bravely to meet the foe. Wielding his trusty knife,
he stabbed the shark again and again through the body, darting aside
before the monster could get the advantage of him. The shark, wounded
mortally and mad with rage, darted forward in a final effort, but John
planted his knife in its open jaws. Uttering a horrid death-shriek, the
creature lay without motion upon the threshold of the cave.
John lost no time, for the noise of the conflict had already attracted
to the scene a number of curious loungers; and, as he feared, the king
himself, attended by his body-guard of monsters, now came in sight.
Darting swiftly through the waves, with Emma clinging bravely to his
shoulders, the assumed Chanliodus drove his sharp fin abruptly into the
middle of a party of squids. These poor fellows were the disappointed
reporters of a submarine newspaper, going home _without_ an account of
the wedding for their journals! The suddenness of the attack caused the
squids promptly to spill the contents of the ink-pots they always carry
with them, forming a dense black cloud, under cover of which the
fugitives safely reached the surface of the sea.
The sun was rising, its rosy light lying upon the bright ocean like a
veil. Now, they knew they were secure, for so long as the sun rules in
heaven, the sea-king dares not show himself above the waves. John and
Emma gazed upon the shore, finding themselves but a little distance from
their boat at anchor, and wept tears of joy and thanksgiving for their
deliverance from the horrors of the deep. When they had clambered into
the boat, John begged his sister to cast away the embroideries and the
ropes of pearl she had brought from the sea-king's dominion. Even as he
spoke, they saw Emma's finery vanishing like a wisp of burnt paper,
while her lovely pearls had turned into strings of common pebbles. Of
all her ornaments only the little golden cross remained, and that shone
with new lustre. With the full force of his stalwart arm, John cast the
sea-king's tokens far into the water; and as they sank, both brother and
sister fancied they saw a huge hand arise to seize them with an angry
grasp, and heard a growl of baffled rage beneath the waves. Wrapping his
sister in his fisherman's cloak, John hastened to sail back to the
humble hut beneath the sand-drift, which had never looked so lovely in
their eyes.
There they dwelt, loving and serene, until in due time a good husband
came for Emma, and John took to himself a fair young wife. From that day
forth, prosperity attended them, and John sailed his own ships across
the ocean, while Emma lived in a beautiful home near the shore.
Strangely enough, never again did John succeed in entrapping one of the
talking creatures of which, as we have clearly seen, there are plenty in
the sea, if one has luck to find them! And another curious thing is,
that never again was Emma able to lift her voice in song. The beautiful
gift which had brought about her strange adventure, and had well-nigh
proved so fatal to them both, had been lost forever!
THE WILD WOODSMAN.
[Illustration: THE WILD WOODSMAN DISGUISED AS A TRAVELLER.]
Once there lived a peasant whose only daughter, Martha, had eyes as blue
as corn-flowers and long hair like the silk around an ear of corn. All
the lads of the village were after her, but she cared only for John, a
young huntsman, who was called by her father an idle vagabond, and sent
away from his cottage in disdain. Now, the village where they lived was
at the foot of a high mountain covered with a dense forest, into certain
portions of which few were found to venture, so wild and lonely they
were. One day Martha went, unknown to her father and mother, to ramble
in the forest. She said to some of her friends that she meant to gather
flowers and pick berries, to sell to a rich lady who lived near them;
but the truth was, that a week had passed without John having set foot
in the village, and she was anxious and uneasy, and wished to visit some
of her lover's favorite haunts, to see if he might be there. It was no
uncommon thing for John to be absent for several days, while trapping
and hunting. He could sleep as well on a bank of moss as on his pallet
at home, and he loved to go to rest under the broad canopy of the sky,
studded with bright stars, and to be lulled by the music of falling
waters.
Martha, dressed in her brown cotton frock, with the scarlet handkerchief
knotted over her fair hair, was seen to go up a rocky pathway on the
mountain-side, where the firs and larches made a bower overhead; but
that night she did not come home, and next day, when John came into the
village with a splendid string of birds he had shot miles away from
there, in an opposite direction to the one Martha had taken, it was to
hear the sad news of the poor girl's disappearance.
John's face grew pale and his stout heart grew faint; he thought of what
all the others were thinking of--the Wild Woodsman, against whose magic
his gun and staff might avail nothing!
The mountain above was believed to be the haunt of a mysterious being,
half man, half brute, fierce and cruel, from whose den no living
creature might ever be rescued. The Wild Woodsman, for so the natives
called him, took many a shape to trap unwary travellers, and a fair
young girl like Martha would be a rich prize for him. John had long
vowed to capture the Wild Woodsman; and now he was filled with a mad
thirst to seek him at once. Without stopping to hear more, the young man
rushed off up the steep mountain path, bounding like a chamois from rock
to rock, as the villagers, awe-struck and tearful, gazed after him and
crossed themselves in superstitious fear.
Through brake and brier, John darted on; he was soon in the dark
recesses of the forest, where the undergrowth was like a jungle. His
fleet foot never tired in the chase, and, erelong, he spied a little red
handkerchief upon the ground. Recognizing this to be Martha's, he gazed
about him, and saw, by the token of broken bushes, that the girl had
been dragged away from that spot up a rocky wall, which it seemed to him
no foot could scale.
Struggling to keep down his sickening dread, John determined to follow.
He began to climb the steep rock. His faithful dog, who had kept close
beside him, suddenly gave a low fierce growl, and the hair on its back
bristled up in fury. John was already half-way up the cliff, when, on
looking down, there, just where he had picked up the handkerchief, he
saw a queer little old fellow, making shoes as quietly as if nothing at
all had happened.
"Hallo, there!" roared John, for he suspected mischief.
The old man looked up, and John saw that he had a young and rosy face
with hair as gray as a badger's. The odd creature made signs that he was
stone deaf, and beckoned John to come down. All this time, the dog was
growling fearfully, and John took warning from the sign. He levelled his
gun without more ado, and said:
"Answer, you fellow. Who are you that have cheeks so fair, and an old
man's locks?"
"I?" said the old man, hopping up with a dreadful grin, "you will know
me soon enough, sirrah, for I am the devil's grandfather."
He stretched out an arm that grew longer every minute, and his hands
changed to the claws of a beast. John lost no time, but taking aim fired
at the Wild Woodsman, for he it was, and none other. Bang! The friendly
bullet made straight for the creature's heart, and though it did not
kill him outright, the Wild Woodsman was sorely wounded. He fell over a
log, groaning pitifully, and prayed John to come to the aid of a poor
old man. John said, "That I will with another bullet," when the Wild
Woodsman darted from the spot, and was lost in the thicket.
After him went the dog, after the dog went John. Such a hunt there never
was! Through spots in the woods where man's foot had never penetrated,
into bogs, and into serpents' lairs, past the caves where bears were
lurking; but no animal would touch John, for the Wild Woodsman was their
deadly enemy.
At last they came to a cleft in a little green hillock. Here was a hut
covered with moss, and the Wild Woodsman, uttering a frantic yell, fell
dead upon the threshold. John heard a shriek within the hut, and,
dashing down the door, saw Martha, lying, bound with ropes made of
plaited willow, in a corner.
He flew to set her free; but, to his surprise, Martha did not appear to
know him. She let him take her by the hand and lead her from the fearful
spot where the inner walls were built of the bones of the Wild
Woodsman's victims. She looked up into his face and smiled, and John saw
she had lost her reason. He did not stop to pick up the jewels and gold,
stolen from murdered travellers, with which the hut was strewn, but made
all speed to leave behind the horrid place. He lifted Martha in his
strong arms and carried her down a path along the far side of the
mountain. A great storm arose, and the earth trembled under his feet;
but he kept bravely on his way, and looking back saw the cleft in the
hills widen; then a great gulf opened, fire and smoke burst forth, and
the hut of the Wild Woodsman was swallowed forever from sight.
John gave a shout of joy, and began singing a hymn in his clear young
voice. The storm ceased. The clouds parted. Down in the valley below was
their own peaceful village, and the sound of the evening bells came
floating up to him. Martha, who had lain in his arms as if asleep,
stirred, and recognized him. Her strength returned, and she asked to
walk beside him. Strangely enough, she said nothing of her late
adventure, then or ever afterward. Not a trace of it remained in her
memory.
When they reached the village, all the people came out to meet them,
rejoicing. John told them he had rescued the lost girl, but the true
history of his chase of the Wild Woodsman he kept to himself. Martha's
father and mother greeted her with tears of thankfulness; and before
another year had gone by John and Martha were married in the village
church. From that day forth, peace reigned upon the mountain-side; but
when stories of the Wild Woodsman were told to Martha's grandchildren,
they little knew the share their hale old grandsire had in ridding the
country-side of such a scourge.
THE FROZEN HEARTH-FAIRY.
Once upon a time, there were a poor couple who lived in a little cottage
overgrown with vines. From roof-tree to cellar, their home was as clean
as hands could make it, and the table and chairs were scoured every day
till they were as white as snow. The man went out into the woods to tie
up fagots, and the woman kept a few bees, and sold the honey. In this
way they managed to live, and were happy, till a great storm came, and
swept off the roof of their house; then the lightning set it on fire,
and it was soon burned to the ground. The man came running from the
forest, and found his wife crying as if her heart would break, beside
her bee-hives, which the wind had upset, scattering all their busy
inmates, and destroying the honey.
"Where shall we sleep to-night?" said the wife.
"Let us search till we find," answered the husband. So they set off and
wandered into the woods, while the storm raged over them. Long did they
stray, until night came. At last they saw a ruined hut, left by some
charcoal-burners, and thankfully entered it. There was dry straw in one
corner, and here the poor woman laid down, half dead with fright and
fatigue. Both of them were hungry, and the man putting his hand in his
pouch was glad to find there a bit of bread, which he was about to give
to his wife, when a queer little black object sprang down the wall and
seized the crust, running nimbly off with it.
"Who are you?" cried the poor man.
"I'm a lost hearth-fairy," said the little creature, in a piping voice.
"If you had made me a fire to warm my poor bones, I should not have
taken your food."
The hearth-fairy's teeth were chattering, and the man pulled together
some sticks and straw, and lighted them with his flint and steel. The
smoke curled up, the flames sparkled merrily. The hearth-fairy slid down
and warmed himself.
"Hallo there! give me back my crust," said the poor man, whose wife kept
pulling him by the sleeve, to remind him of her hunger.
"Now that I think of it, I want this crust myself," said the
hearth-fairy. "I am off on a journey to seek a warm fireside, and I need
something to strengthen me. But here is a duck instead, only you had
better not kill her!"
A fine fat duck tumbled at the poor man's feet. The hearth-fairy
vanished in the smoke. Oh! how the poor couple longed to kill and eat
that duck. Their mouths watered as they thought of onion-sauce, and of
breadcrumbs, and of sage. Faint and starving, they fell asleep in a
corner of the hut. When day broke the poor man rose up, and went to the
door. The storm had ceased and the duck was quacking on the door-sill.
She waddled away, and left behind her a large egg of purest gold. Just
then the lord of the forest rode by with his huntsman. They saw the
shining prize in the poor man's hand, and offered to buy it of him.
"I will give it for a loaf of brown bread and a sausage," he said, "for
my wife lies starving, within."
The huntsman gave him food and drink; and the lord of the forest, after
hearing his story, had the poor couple taken to a nice empty cottage
near by, and told them they should have it for their own. The golden egg
was sold, and the man and his wife lived in comfort all their days from
the money it fetched. They never saw either the hearth-fairy or the
magic duck again, but the good wife soon went to bee-keeping, which made
her very happy.
ROSY'S STAY-AT-HOME PARTIES.
"Oh! dear, oh! dear," sighed Rosy, "I'm the most unhappy little girl in
all the world."
She was kneeling in a chair, gazing through the drawing-room window. In
the street outside was drawn up a carriage, into which Nurse was packing
all of Rosy's brothers and sisters. Clover was there, a boy of twelve,
looking rather disgusted with his surroundings, and having his head
nearly cut off by his first upright collar. Violet, Rosy's twin sister,
was there, dressed in the sweetest new pale blue camel's-hair, and
taking great care to turn the skirt of it up over her shoulders as she
nestled into her corner of the landau. (Rosy thought with a pang of her
own new dress, the double of Violet's, hanging upstairs in the wardrobe,
in a melancholy way!) Jonquil was there, the chubby, golden-haired,
big-eyed brother, aged three. And last of all was dear wee Honeysuckle,
like a bundle of lace and flannel in Marie's arms; while old Nurse's
spectacles could hardly be seen through the mass of sash-ends and fluted
petticoats, and scarlet stockings, and velvet breeches, and flying locks
of hair completely filling the roomy carriage. No one could doubt that
the children were going to a party, even if they had not announced that
fact to everybody within ear-shot by the chatter of their busy little
tongues!
At last all were settled, and the carriage rolled away. "Good-by, Rosy,"
"Good-by, Rosy!" came up in a shrill chorus; and, the last Rosy's
tear-dimmed eyes could see of them, hands and handkerchiefs were waving
a farewell to the sister left behind.
Then it was that Rosy's fortitude completely forsook her, and she
dropped sobbing into the chair. It was a bitter disappointment, for the
party was to be given by their aunt in honor of these children, and, in
addition to Punch and Judy, magic, and a candy-bag, they were promised a
huge bran-pie, full of delightful hidden presents. Rosy had suffered
from a pretty bad sore-throat the night before, and the doctor had
forbidden her going out. It is no use for grown people to say, dear
children, these disappointments of yours don't matter much, for they
_do_. They seem as high as mountains in your path, and I fully
sympathize with you all, and especially with little weeping Rosy.
So thought her mamma, evidently, for she came into the room just then,
and picked the little bunch of blue serge and cardinal ribbons up in her
arms, and sat down with it in a low chair by the fire.
"Boo-hoo!" said Rosy, breaking out afresh when she felt mamma's kisses
on her hair and wet cheeks. Mamma said very little, but by and by the
little girl began to feel comforted, in spite of herself. You know how
it is, dears! First, you stop roaring and moan, then your eyes are
kissed dry, then you burrow your heads down and sigh, then you lie quite
still for a little while--and at last, after blowing your noses in an
heroic way, you are ready to laugh again!
All this happened in Rosy's case, and for awhile she sat talking, until
her mamma was called away to attend to some household matter. By that
time Rosy was quite content to be tucked into a corner of the
comfortable sofa, covered with a down quilt, and left to gaze into the
depths of a woodfire, burning gently (for it had passed the spitting,
spluttering stage), upon two great old-fashioned brass andirons with
claw-feet and queer round bald heads.
Around Rosy's couch was drawn a gay Japanese screen; before the fire was
spread a great black bear-skin rug, and on either side of it stood a
tall green porcelain jar. Clover always said these vases were like the
ones in which Morgiana hid the Forty Thieves, and the children had more
than once stuffed baby Honeysuckle into one of them to keep her out of
mischief during what Nurse called their "rampagin's to split one's
head."
Over her mamma's writing-table, low enough for Rosy to look into the
very heart of it, hung a picture in a broad gold frame. The picture was
of a chestnut wood in Brittany, and standing in the shadow of a drooping
bough was a little girl of about ten, her own age. One of the little
peasant maiden's arms was clasped around the neck of a big dog,
harnessed to a cart of vegetables. Under the other arm she held a fat
goose with a dangling neck. Overhead, the sky was blue and the leaves
seemed to be rustling in a summer wind. Around the feet of the tiny
nut-brown maiden, with her odd high cap, grew tall heather and feathery
ferns, with here and there a clump of flame-shaped lilies. When snow was
on the ground outside Rosy always loved to gaze at this pretty scene,
and to fancy herself stepping over the frame to have a chat about
vegetables, and a ramble in the forest with Annette.
Rosy's eyes wandered from one object to another in this pleasant room.
Fluff, her mother's Skye terrier, curled up on her feet and fell asleep.
The clock upon the mantel ticked softly, Fluff snored contentedly,
little particles of burning wood pattered into the bed of glowing embers
below. Even the familiar rumble of the street cars along the
thoroughfare at the end of their block seemed more subdued than usual;
and Rosy lay, never stirring, until--she found herself, without the
least warning, slipping down through one of her mother's great porcelain
jars, into Japan! Fluff woke up, and dashed to the rescue, with his
fierce little "Rah!" of a bark; but there was nothing to be seen of Miss
Rosy except the tip of a scarlet bow, with which Nurse was wont to adorn
the summit of her young lady's head. She felt the rustle of the dried
rose-leaves at the bottom of the jar falling over her in a fragrant
shower, as she fell through space, pulling up, decidedly out of breath,
in a very queer locality.
It was a town where the houses looked as if they had been built for big
dolls to live in. Houses with sliding walls, doors, and galleries made
all of paper, that in two minutes you could take apart and pack up as
you do a box of Crandall's blocks. The streets were honeycombed with
quaint booths, and crowded with human beings going in and out of them
like bees. The carriages were babies' perambulators, drawn by a tandem
team of brown-skinned men, wearing a single garment each, and umbrella
hats.
There were no horses to be seen, but the cows wore blue cotton wrappers
and shoes made of straw. Men, women, and children, at first sight,
seemed to be dressed alike, all clattering around on high clogs,
stooping painfully; and the funny little bald-headed babies were either
carried pick-a-back by their mammas, or else were tucked in the breast
of their fathers' loose wrappers, together with pipes, tobacco pouches,
books, and a variety of other useful articles.