with the second wife it was otherwise. She was greatly displeased to
think that her child was not now to be the sole heir of his father's
goods; and she so pestered and worked upon the old man by artful and
malicious speeches, that he consented to send away the new-comer till
he should have found the first wife's wedding-ring.
"Is the homestead I have taken such care of," she cried, "to go to the
first vagrant who comes in with a brown face and a ragged coat,
pretending that he is your son?"
So the soldier was sent about his business; but his father followed
him to the gate, and slipped some money into his hand, saying, "God
speed you back again with the ring!"
It was Sunday morning, and the bells were ringing for service as he
turned sadly away.
"Ding, dong!" rang the bells, "ding, dong! Why do you not come to
church like others? Why are you not dressed in your Sunday clothes,
and wherefore do you heave such doleful sighs, whilst we ring merrily?
Ding, dong! ding, dong!"
"Is there not a cause?" replied the soldier. "This day I am turned out
of home and heritage, though indeed I am the true heir."
"Nevertheless we shall ring for your return," said the bells.
As he went, the sun shone on the green fields, and in the soldier's
eyes, and said, "See how brightly I shine! But you, comrade, why is
your face so cloudy?"
"Is there not good reason?" replied he. "This day I am turned out of
home and heritage, and yet I am the true heir."
"Nevertheless I shall shine on your return," said the sun.
Along the road the hawthorn hedges were white with blossom. "Heyday!"
they cried, "who is this that comes trimp tramp, with a face as long
as a poplar-tree? Cheer up, friend! It is spring! sweet spring! All is
now full of hope and joy, and why should you look so sour?"
"May I not be excused?" said the soldier. "This day I am turned out,
of home and heritage, and yet I am the true heir."
"Nevertheless we shall blossom when you return," said the hedges.
When he had wandered for three days and three nights, all he had was
spent, and there was no shelter to be seen but a dark gloomy forest,
which stretched before him. Just then he saw a small, weazened old
woman, who was trying to lift a bundle of sticks on to her back.
"That is too heavy for you, good mother," said the soldier; and he
raised and adjusted it for her.
"Have you just come here?" muttered the old crone; "then the best
thanks I can give you is to bid you get away as fast as you can."
"I never retreated yet, dame," said the soldier, and on he went.
Presently he met with a giant, who was strolling along by the edge of
the wood, knocking the cones off the tops of the fir-trees with his
finger-nails. He was an ill-favoured-looking monster, but he said,
civilly enough, "You look in want of employment, comrade. Will you
take service with me?"
"I must first know two things," answered the soldier; "my work and my
wages."
"Your work," said the giant, "is to cut a path through this wood to
the other side. But then you shall have a year and a day to do it in.
If you do it within the time, you will find at the other end a
magpie's nest, in which is the ring of which you are in search. The
nest also contains the crown jewels which have been stolen, and if you
take these to the king, you will need no further reward. But, on the
other hand, if the work is not done within the time, you will
thenceforth be my servant without wages."
"It is a hard bargain," said the soldier, "but need knows no law, and
I agree to the conditions."
When he came into the giant's abode, he was greatly astonished to see
the little weazened old woman. She showed no sign of recognizing him,
however, and the soldier observed a like discretion. He soon
discovered that she was the giant's wife, and much in dread of her
husband, who treated her with great cruelty.
"To-morrow you shall begin to work," said the giant.
"If you please," said the soldier, and before he went to bed he
carried in water and wood for the old woman.
"There's a kinship in trouble," said he.
Next morning the giant led him to a certain place on the outskirts of
the forest, and giving him an axe, said, "The sooner you begin, the
better, and you may see that it is not difficult." Saying which, he
took hold of one of the trees by the middle, and snapped it off as one
might pluck a flower.
"Thus to thee, but how to me?" said the soldier; and when the giant
departed he set to work. But although he was so strong, and worked
willingly, the trees seemed almost as hard as stone, and he made
little progress. When he returned at night the giant asked him how he
got on.
"The trees are very hard," said he.
"So they always say," replied the giant; "I have always had idle
servants."
"I will not be called idle a second time," thought the soldier, and
next day he went early and worked his utmost. But the result was very
small. And when he came home, looking weary and disappointed, he could
not fail to perceive that this gave great satisfaction to the giant.
Matters had gone on thus for some time, when one morning, as he went
to work, he found the little old woman gathering sticks as before.
"Listen," said she. "He shall not treat you as he has treated others.
Count seventy to the left from where you are working, and begin again.
But do not let him know that you have made a fresh start. And do a
little at the old place from time to time, as a blind." And before he
could thank her, the old woman was gone. Without more ado, however, he
counted seventy from the old place, and hit the seventieth tree such a
blow with his axe, that it came crashing down then and there. And he
found that, one after another, the trees yielded to his blows as if
they were touch-wood. He did a good day's work, gave a few strokes in
the old spot, and came home, taking care to look as gloomy as before.
Day by day he got deeper and deeper into the wood, the trees falling
before him like dry elder twigs; and now the hardest part of his work
was walking backwards and fowards to the giant's home, for the forest
seemed almost interminable. But on the three hundred and sixty-sixth
day from his first meeting with the giant, the soldier cut fairly
through on to an open plain, and as the light streamed in, a magpie
flew away, and on searching her nest, the soldier found his mother's
wedding-ring. He also found many precious stones of priceless value,
which were evidently the lost crown jewels. And as his term of service
with the giant was now ended, he did not trouble himself to return,
but with the ring and the jewels in his pocket set off to find his way
to the capital.
He soon fell in with a good-humoured, fellow who showed him the way,
and pointed out everything of interest on the road. As they drew near,
one of the royal carriages was driving out of the city gates, in which
sat three beautiful ladies who were the king's daughters.
"The two eldest are engaged to marry two neighbouring princes," said
the companion.
"And whom is the youngest to marry?" asked the soldier, "for she is by
far the most beautiful."
"She will never marry," answered his companion, "for she is pledged to
the man who shall find the crown jewels, and cut a path through the
stone-wood forest that borders the king's domains. And that is much as
if she were promised to the man who should fetch down the moon for her
to play with. For the jewels are lost beyond recall, and the wood is
an enchanted forest."
"Nevertheless she shall be wed with my mother's ring," thought the
soldier. But he kept his own counsel, and only waited till he had
smartened himself up, before he sought an audience of the king.
His claim to the princess was fully proved; the king heaped honours
and riches upon him; and he made himself so acceptable to his
bride-elect, that the wedding was fixed for an early day.
"May I bring my old father, madam?" he asked of the princess.
"That you certainly may," said she. "A good son makes a good husband."
As he entered his native village the hedges were in blossom, the sun
shone; and the bells rang for his return.
His stepmother now welcomed him, and was very anxious to go to court
also. But her husband said, "No. You took such good care of the
homestead, it is but fit you should look to it whilst I am away."
As to the giant, when he found that he had been outwitted, he went
off, and was never more heard of in those parts. But the soldier took
his wife into the city, and cared for her to the day of her death.
THE MAGICIAN TURNED MISCHIEF-MAKER.
There was once a wicked magician who prospered, and did much evil for
many years. But there came a day when Vengeance, disguised as a blind
beggar, overtook him, and outwitted him, and stole his magic wand.
With this he had been accustomed to turn those who offended him into
any shape he pleased; and now that he had lost it he could only
transform himself.
As Vengeance was returning to his place, he passed through a village,
the inhabitants of which had formerly lived in great terror of the
magician, and told them of the downfall of his power. But they only
said, "Blind beggars have long tongues. One must not believe all one
hears," and shrugged their shoulders, and left him.
Then Vengeance waved the wand and said, "As you have doubted me,
distress each other;" and so departed.
By and by he came to another village, and told the news. But here the
villagers were full of delight, and made a feast, and put the blind
beggar in the place of honour; who, when he departed, said, "As you
have done by me, deal with each other always!" and went on to the next
village.
In this place he was received with even warmer welcome; and when the
feast was over, the people brought him to the bridge which led out of
the village, and gave him a guide-dog to help him on his way.
Then the blind beggar waved the wand once more and said;
"Those who are so good to strangers must needs be good to each other.
But that nothing may be wanting to the peace of this place, I grant to
the beasts and birds in it that they may understand the language of
men."
Then he broke the wand in pieces, and threw it into the stream. And
when the people turned their heads back again from watching the bits
as they floated away, the blind beggar was gone.
Meanwhile the magician was wild with rage at the loss of his wand, for
all his pleasure was to do harm and hurt. But when he came to himself
he said: "One can do a good deal of harm with his tongue. I will turn
mischief-maker; and when the place is too hot to hold me, I can escape
in what form I please."
Then he came to the first village, where Vengeance had gone before,
and here he lived for a year and a day in various disguises; and he
made more misery with his tongue than he had ever accomplished in any
other year with his magic wand. For every one distrusted his
neighbour, and was ready to believe ill of him. So parents disowned
their children, and husband and wives parted, and lovers broke faith;
and servants and masters disagreed; and old friends became bitter
enemies, till at last the place was intolerable even to the magician,
and he changed himself into a cockchafer, and flew to the next
village, where, Vengeance had gone before.
Here also he dwelt for a year and a day, and then he left it because
he could do no harm. For those who loved each other trusted each
other, and the magician made mischief in vain. In one of his disguises
he was detected, and only escaped with his life from the enraged
villagers by changing himself into a cockchafer and flying on to the
next place, where Vengeance had gone before.
In this village he made less mischief than in the first, and more than
in the second. And he exercised all his art, and changed his disguises
constantly; but the dogs knew him under all.
One dog--the oldest dog in the place--was keeping watch over the
miller's house, when he saw the magician approaching, in the disguise
of an old woman.
"Do you see that old witch?" said he to the sparrows, who were picking
up stray bits of grain in the yard. "With her evil tongue she is
parting my master's daughter and the finest young fellow in the
country-side. She puts lies and truth together, with more skill than
you patch moss and feathers to build nests. And when she is asked
where she heard this or that, she says, 'A little bird told me so.'"
"We never told her," said the sparrows indignantly, "and if we had
your strength, Master Keeper, she should not malign us long!"
"I believe you are right!" said Master Keeper. "Of what avail is it
that we have learned the language of men, if we do not help them to
the utmost of our powers? She shall torment my young mistress no
more."
Saying which he flew upon the disguised magician as he entered the
gate, and would have torn him limb from limb, but that the
mischief-maker changed himself as before into a cockchafer, and flew
hastily from the village.
And thus he might doubtless have escaped to do yet further harm, had
not three cock-sparrows overtaken him just before he crossed the
bridge.
From three sides they hemmed him in, crying, "Which of us told you?"
"Which of us told you?" "Which of us told you?"--and pecked him to
pieces before he could transform himself again.
After which peace and prosperity befell all the neighbourhood.
KNAVE AND FOOL.
A Fool and a Knave once set up house together; which shows what a fool
the Fool was.
The Knave was delighted with the agreement; and the Fool thought
himself most fortunate to have met with a companion who would supply
his lack of mother-wit.
As neither of them liked work, the Knave proposed that they should
live upon their joint savings as long as these should last; and, to
avoid disputes, that they should use the Fool's share till it came to
an end, and then begin upon the Knave's stocking.
So, for a short time, they lived in great comfort at the Fool's
expense, and were very good company; for easy times make easy tempers.
Just when the store was exhausted, the Knave came running to the Fool
with an empty bag and a wry face, crying, "Dear friend, what shall we
do? This bag, which I had safely buried under a gooseberry-bush, has
been taken up by some thief, and all my money stolen. My savings were
twice as large as yours; but now that they are gone, and I can no
longer perform my share of the bargain, I fear our partnership must be
dissolved."
"Not so, dear friend," said the Fool, who was very good-natured; "we
have shared good luck together, and now we will share poverty. But as
nothing is left, I fear we must seek work."
"You speak very wisely," said the Knave, "And what, for instance, can
you do?"
"Very little," said the Fool; "but that little I do well."
"So do I," said the Knave. "Now can you plough, or sow, or feed
cattle, or plant crops?"
"Farming is not my business," said the Fool.
"Nor mine," said the Knave; "but no doubt you are a handicraftsman.
Are you clever at carpentry, mason's work, tailoring, or shoemaking?"
"I do not doubt that I should have been had I learned the trades,"
said the Fool, "but I never was bound apprentice."
"It is the same with myself," said the Knave; "but you may have finer
talents. Can you paint, or play the fiddle?"
"I never tried," said the Fool; "so I don't know."
"Just my case," said the Knave. "And now, since we can't find work, I
propose that we travel till work finds us."
The two comrades accordingly set forth, and they went on and on, till
they came to the foot of a hill, where a merchantman was standing by
his wagon, which had broken down.
"You seem two strong men," said he, as they advanced; "if you will
carry this chest of valuables up to the top of the hill, and down to
the bottom on the other side, where there is an inn, I will give you
two gold pieces for your trouble."
The Knave and the Fool consented to this, saying, "Work has found us
at last;" and they lifted the box on to their shoulders.
"Turn, and turn about," said the Knave; "but the best turn between
friends is a good turn; so I will lead the way up-hill, which is the
hardest kind of travelling, and you shall go first down-hill, the easy
half of our journey."
The Fool thought this proposal a very generous one, and, not knowing
that the lower end of their burden was the heavy one, he carried it
all the way. When they got to the inn, the merchant gave each of them
a gold piece, and, as the accommodation was good, they remained where
they were till their money was spent. After this, they lived there
awhile on credit; and when that was exhausted, they rose one morning
whilst the landlord was still in bed, and pursued their journey,
leaving old scores behind them.
They had been a long time without work or food, when they came upon a
man who sat by the roadside breaking stones, with a quart of porridge
and a spoon in a tin pot beside him.
"You look hungry, friends," said he, "and I, for my part, want to get
away. If you will break up this heap, you shall have the porridge for
supper. But when you have eaten it, put the pot and spoon under the
hedge, that I may find them when I return."
"If we eat first, we shall have strength for our work," said the
Knave; "and as there is only one spoon, we must eat by turns. But
fairly divide, friendly abide. As you went first the latter part of
our journey, I will begin on this occasion. When I stop, you fall to,
and eat as many spoonfuls as I ate. Then I will follow you in like
fashion, and so on till the pot is empty."
"Nothing could be fairer," said the Fool; and the Knave began to eat,
and went on till he had eaten a third of the porridge. The Fool, who
had counted every spoonful, now took his turn, and ate precisely as
much as his comrade. The Knave then began again, and was exact to a
mouthful; but it emptied the pot. Thus the Knave had twice as much as
the Fool, who could not see where he had been cheated.
They then set to work.
"As there is only one hammer," said the Knave, "we must work, as we
supped, by turns; and as I began last time, you shall begin this.
After you have worked awhile, I will take the hammer from you, and do
as much myself whilst you rest. Then you shall take it up again, and
so on till the heap is finished."
"It is not every one who is as just as you," said the Fool; and taking
up the hammer, he set to work with a will.
The Knave took care to let him go on till he had broken a third of the
stones, and then he did as good a share himself; after which the Fool
began again, and finished the heap.
By this means the Fool did twice as much work as the Knave, and yet he
could not complain.
As they moved on again, the Fool perceived that the Knave was taking
the can and the spoon with him.
"I am sorry to see you do that, friend," said he.
"It's a very small theft," said the Knave. "The can cannot have cost
more than sixpence when new."
"That was not what I meant," said the Fool, "so much as that I fear
the owner will find it out."
"He will only think the things have been stolen by some vagrant,"
said the Knave--"which, indeed, they would be if we left them. But as
you seem to have a tender conscience, I will keep them myself."
After a while they met with a farmer, who offered to give them supper
and a night's lodging, if they would scare the birds from a field of
corn for him till sunset.
"I will go into the outlying fields," said the Knave, "and as I see
the birds coming, I will turn them back. You, dear friend, remain in
the corn, and scare away the few that may escape me."
But whilst the Fool clapped and shouted till he was tired, the Knave
went to the other side of the hedge, and lay down for a nap.
As they sat together at supper, the Fool said, "Dear friend, this is
laborious work. I propose that we ask the farmer to let us tend sheep,
instead. That is a very different affair. One lies on the hillside all
day. The birds do not steal sheep; and all this shouting and clapping
is saved."
The Knave very willingly agreed, and next morning the two friends
drove a flock of sheep on to the downs. The sheep at once began to
nibble, the dog sat with his tongue out, panting, and the Knave and
Fool lay down on their backs, and covered their faces with their hats
to shield them from the sun.
Thus they lay till evening, when, the sun being down, they uncovered
their faces, and found that the sheep had all strayed away, and the
dog after them.
"The only plan for us is to go separate ways in search of the flock,"
said the Knave; "only let us agree to meet here again." They
accordingly started in opposite directions; but when the Fool was
fairly off, the Knave returned to his place, and lay down as before.
By and by the dog brought the sheep back; so that, when the Fool
returned, the Knave got the credit of having found them; for the dog
scorned to explain his part in the matter.
As they sat together at supper, the Fool said, "The work is not so
easy as I thought. Could we not find a better trade yet?"
"Can you beg?" said the Knave. "A beggar's trade is both easy and
profitable. Nothing is required but walking and talking. Then one
walks at his own pace, for there is no hurry, and no master, and the
same tale does for every door. And, that all may be fair and equal,
you shall beg at the front door, whilst I ask an alms at the back."
To this the Fool gladly agreed; and as he was as lean as a hunted cat,
charitable people gave him a penny or two from time to time.
Meanwhile, the Knave went round to the back yard, where he picked up
a fowl, or turkey, or anything that he could lay his hands upon.
When he returned to the Fool, he would say, "See what has been given
to me, whilst you have only got a few pence."
At last this made the Fool discontented, and he said, "I should like
now to exchange with you. I will go to the back doors, and you to the
front."
The Knave consented, and at the next house the Fool went to the back
door; but the mistress of the farm only rated him, and sent him away.
Meanwhile, the Knave, from the front, had watched her leave the
parlour, and slipping in through the window, he took a ham and a
couple of new loaves from the table, and so made off.
When the friends met, the Fool was crestfallen at his ill luck, and
the Knave complained that all the burden of their support fell upon
him. "See," said he, "what they give me, where you get only a mouthful
of abuse!" And he dined heartily on what he had stolen; but the Fool
only had bits of the breadcrust, and the parings of the ham.
At the next place the Fool went to the front door as before, and the
Knave secured a fat goose and some plums in the back yard, which he
popped under his cloak. The Fool came away with empty hands, and the
Knave scolded him, saying, "Do you suppose that I mean to share this
fat goose with a lazy beggar like you? Go on, and find for yourself."
With which he sat down and began to eat the plums, whilst the Fool
walked on alone.
After a while, however, the Knave saw a stir in the direction of the
farm they had left, and he quickly perceived that the loss of the
goose was known, and that the farmer and his men were in pursuit of
the thief. So, hastily picking up the goose, he overtook the Fool, and
pressed it into his arms, saying, "Dear friend, pardon a passing ill
humour, of which I sincerely repent. Are we not partners in good luck
and ill? I was wrong, dear friend; and, in token of my penitence, the
goose shall be yours alone. And here are a few plums with which you
may refresh yourself by the wayside. As for me, I will hasten on to
the next farm, and see if I can beg a bottle of wine to wash down the
dinner, and drink to our good-fellowship." And before the Fool could
thank him, the Knave was off like the wind.
By and by the farmer and his men came up, and found the Fool eating
the plums, with the goose on the grass beside him.
They hurried him off to the justice, where his own story met with no
credit. The woman of the next farm came up also, and recognized him
for the man who had begged at her door the day she lost a ham and two
new loaves. In vain he said that these things also had been given to
his friend. The friend never appeared; and the poor Fool was whipped
and put in the stocks.
Towards evening the Knave hurried up to the village green, where his
friend sat doing penance for the theft.
"My dear friend," said he, "what do I see? Is such cruelty possible?
But I hear that the justice is not above a bribe, and we must at any
cost obtain your release. I am going at once to pawn my own boots and
cloak, and everything about me that I can spare, and if you have
anything to add, this is no time to hesitate."
The poor Fool begged his friend to draw off his boots, and to take his
hat and coat as well, and to make all speed on his charitable errand.