to try to help her. But though he hunted in every room, no Zelia was to
be found. He had to fly away, without seeing her. He wanted more than
anything else to find her, and stay near her, so he flew out into the
world, to seek her.
He sought her in many lands, until one day, in a far eastern country, he
found her sitting in a tent, by the side of an old, white-haired hermit.
Cherry was wild with delight. He flew to her shoulder, caressed her hair
with his beak, and cooed in her ear.
"You dear, lovely little thing!" said Zelia. "Will you stay with me? If
you will, I will love you always."
"Ah, Zelia, see what you have done!" laughed the hermit. At that
instant, the white dove vanished, and Prince Cherry stood there, as
handsome and charming as ever, and with a look of kindness and modesty
in his eyes which had never been there before. At the same time, the
hermit stood up, his flowing hair changed to shining gold, and his face
became a lovely woman's face; it was the Fairy Candide. "Zelia has
broken your spell," she said to the prince, "as I meant she should, when
you were worthy of her love."
Zelia and Prince Cherry fell at the fairy's feet. But with a beautiful
smile she bade them come to their kingdom. In a trice, they were
transported to the prince's palace, where King Suliman greeted them with
tears of joy. He gave back the throne with all his heart, and King
Cherry ruled again, with Zelia for his queen.
He wore the little gold ring all the rest of his life, but never once
did it have to prick him hard enough to make his finger bleed.
FOOTNOTES:
[30] A shortened version of the familiar tale.
THE GOLD IN THE ORCHARD[31]
There was once a farmer who had a fine olive orchard. He was very
industrious, and the farm always prospered under his care. But he knew
that his three sons despised the farm work, and were eager to make
wealth fast, through adventure.
When the farmer was old, and felt that his time had come to die, he
called the three sons to him and said, "My sons, there is a pot of gold
hidden in the olive orchard. Dig for it, if you wish it."
The sons tried to get him to tell them in what part of the orchard the
gold was hidden; but he would tell them nothing more.
After the farmer was dead, the sons went to work to find the pot of
gold; since they did not know where the hiding-place was, they agreed to
begin in a line, at one end of the orchard, and to dig until one of them
should find the money.
They dug until they had turned up the soil from one end of the orchard
to the other, round the tree-roots and between them. But no pot of gold
was to be found. It seemed as if some one must have stolen it, or as if
the farmer had been wandering in his wits. The three sons were bitterly
disappointed to have all their work for nothing.
The next olive season, the olive trees in the orchard bore more fruit
than they had ever given before; the fine cultivating they had had from
the digging brought so much fruit, and of so fine a quality, that when
it was sold it gave the sons a whole pot of gold!
And when they saw how much money had come from the orchard, they
suddenly understood what the wise father had meant when he said, "There
is gold hidden in the orchard; dig for it."
FOOTNOTES:
[31] An Italian folk tale.
MARGARET OF NEW ORLEANS
If you ever go to the beautiful city of New Orleans, somebody will be
sure to take you down into the old business part of the city, where
there are banks and shops and hotels, and show you a statue which stands
in a little square there. It is the statue of a woman, sitting in a low
chair, with her arms around a child, who leans against her. The woman is
not at all pretty: she wears thick, common shoes, a plain dress, with a
little shawl, and a sun-bonnet; she is stout and short, and her face is
a square-chinned Irish face; but her eyes look at you like your
mother's.
Now there is something very surprising about this statue: it was the
first one that was ever made in America in honour of a woman. Even in
Europe there are not many monuments to women, and most of the few are to
great queens or princesses, very beautiful and very richly dressed. You
see, this statue in New Orleans is not quite like anything else.
It is the statue of a woman named Margaret. Her whole name was Margaret
Haughery, but no one in New Orleans remembers her by it, any more than
you think of your dearest sister by her full name; she is just Margaret.
This is her story, and it tells why people made a monument for her.
When Margaret was a tiny baby, her father and mother died, and she was
adopted by two young people as poor and as kind as her own parents. She
lived with them until she grew up. Then she married, and had a little
baby of her own. But very soon her husband died, and then the baby died,
too, and Margaret was all alone in the world. She was poor, but she was
strong, and knew how to work.
All day, from morning until evening, she ironed clothes in a laundry.
And every day, as she worked by the window, she saw the little
motherless children from the orphan asylum, near by, working and
playing about. After a while, there came a great sickness upon the city,
and so many mothers and fathers died that there were more orphans than
the asylum could possibly take care of. They needed a good friend, now.
You would hardly think, would you, that a poor woman who worked in a
laundry could be much of a friend to them? But Margaret was. She went
straight to the kind Sisters who had the asylum and told them she was
going to give them part of her wages and was going to work for them,
besides. Pretty soon she had worked so hard that she had some money
saved from her wages. With this, she bought two cows and a little
delivery cart. Then she carried her milk to her customers in the little
cart every morning; and as she went, she begged the pieces of food left
over from the hotels and rich houses, and brought it back in the cart to
the hungry children in the asylum. In the very hardest times that was
often all the food the poor children had.
A part of the money Margaret earned went every week to the asylum, and
after a few years that was made very much larger and better. Margaret
was so careful and so good at business that, in spite of her giving, she
bought more cows and earned more money. With this, she built a home for
orphan babies; she called it her baby house.
After a time, Margaret had a chance to get a bakery, and then she became
a bread-woman instead of a milk-woman. She carried the bread just as she
had carried the milk, in her cart. And still she kept giving money to
the asylum. Then the great war came, the Civil War. In all the trouble
and sickness and fear of that time, Margaret drove her cart of bread;
and somehow she had always enough to give the starving soldiers, and for
her babies, beside what she sold. And despite all this, she earned
enough so that when the war was over she built a big steam factory for
her bread. By this time everybody in the city knew her. The children all
over the city loved her; the business men were proud of her; the poor
people all came to her for advice. She used to sit at the open door of
her office, in a calico gown and a little shawl, and give a good word to
everybody, rich or poor.
Then, by and by, one day, Margaret died. And when it was time to read
her will, the people found that, with all her giving, she had still
saved a great deal of money, and that she had left every penny of it to
the different orphan asylums of the city,--each one of them was given
something. Whether they were for white children or black, for Jews,
Catholics, or Protestants, made no difference; for Margaret always said,
"They are all orphans alike." And just think, dears, that splendid,
wise will was signed with a cross instead of a name, for Margaret had
never learned to read or write!
When the people of New Orleans knew that Margaret was dead, they said,
"She was a mother to the motherless; she was a friend to those who had
no friends; she had wisdom greater than schools can teach; we will not
let her memory go from us." So they made a statue of her, just as she
used to look, sitting in her own office door, or driving in her own
little cart. And there it stands to-day, in memory of the great love and
the great power of plain Margaret Haughery, of New Orleans.
THE DAGDA'S HARP
You know, dears, in the old countries there are many fine stories about
things which happened so very long ago that nobody knows exactly how
much of them is true. Ireland is like that. It is so old that even as
long ago as four thousand years it had people who dug in the mines, and
knew how to weave cloth and to make beautiful ornaments out of gold, and
who could fight and make laws; but we do not know just where they came
from, nor exactly how they lived. These people left us some splendid
stories about their kings, their fights, and their beautiful women; but
it all happened such a long time ago that the stories are mixtures of
things that really happened and what people said about them, and we
don't know just which is which. The stories are called _legends_. One of
the prettiest legends is the story I am going to tell you about the
Dagda's harp.
It is said that there were two quite different kinds of people in
Ireland: one set of people with long dark hair and dark eyes, called
Fomorians--they carried long slender spears made of golden bronze when
they fought--and another race of people who were golden-haired and
blue-eyed, and who carried short, blunt, heavy spears of dull metal.
The golden-haired people had a great chieftain who was also a kind of
high priest, who was called the Dagda. And this Dagda had a wonderful
magic harp. The harp was beautiful to look upon, mighty in size, made of
rare wood, and ornamented with gold and jewels; and it had wonderful
music in its strings, which only the Dagda could call out. When the men
were going out to battle, the Dagda would set up his magic harp and
sweep his hand across the strings, and a war song would ring out which
would make every warrior buckle on his armour, brace his knees, and
shout, "Forth to the fight!" Then, when the men came back from the
battle, weary and wounded, the Dagda would take his harp and strike a
few chords, and as the magic music stole out upon the air, every man
forgot his weariness and the smart of his wounds, and thought of the
honour he had won, and of the comrade who had died beside him, and of
the safety of his wife and children. Then the song would swell out
louder, and every warrior would remember only the glory he had helped
win for the king; and each man would rise at the great table, his cup in
his hand, and shout "Long live the King!"
There came a time when the Fomorians and the golden-haired men were at
war; and in the midst of a great battle, while the Dagda's hall was not
so well guarded as usual, some of the chieftains of the Fomorians stole
the great harp from the wall, where it hung, and fled away with it.
Their wives and children and some few of their soldiers went with them,
and they fled fast and far through the night, until they were a long way
from the battlefield. Then they thought they were safe, and they turned
aside into a vacant castle, by the road, and sat down to a banquet,
hanging the stolen harp on the wall.
The Dagda, with two or three of his warriors, had followed hard on their
track. And while they were in the midst of their banqueting, the door
was suddenly burst open, and the Dagda stood there, with his men. Some
of the Fomorians sprang to their feet, but before any of them could
grasp a weapon, the Dagda called out to his harp on the wall, "Come to
me, O my harp!"
The great harp recognised its master's voice, and leaped from the wall.
Whirling through the hall, sweeping aside and killing the men who got in
its way, it sprang to its master's hand. And the Dagda took his harp and
swept his hand across the strings in three great, solemn chords. The
harp answered with the magic Music of Tears. As the wailing harmony
smote upon the air, the women of the Fomorians bowed their heads and
wept bitterly, the strong men turned their faces aside, and the little
children sobbed.
Again the Dagda touched the strings, and this time the magic Music of
Mirth leaped from the harp. And when they heard that Music of Mirth, the
young warriors of the Fomorians began to laugh; they laughed till the
cups fell from their grasp, and the spears dropped from their hands,
while the wine flowed from the broken bowls; they laughed until their
limbs were helpless with excess of glee.
Once more the Dagda touched his harp, but very, very softly. And now a
music stole forth as soft as dreams, and as sweet as joy: it was the
magic Music of Sleep. When they heard that, gently, gently, the Fomorian
women bowed their heads in slumber; the little children crept to their
mothers' laps; the old men nodded; and the young warriors drooped in
their seats and closed their eyes: one after another all the Fomorians
sank into sleep.
When they were all deep in slumber, the Dagda took his magic harp, and
he and his golden-haired warriors stole softly away, and came in safety
to their own homes again.
THE TAILOR AND THE THREE BEASTS[32]
There was once a tailor in Galway, and he started out on a journey to go
to the king's court at Dublin.
He had not gone far when he met a white horse, and he saluted him.
"God save you," said the tailor.
"God save you," said the horse. "Where are you going?"
"I am going to Dublin," said the tailor, "to build a court for the king
and to get a lady for a wife, if I am able to do it." For, it seems the
king had promised his daughter and a great lot of money to anyone who
should be able to build up his court. The trouble was, that three giants
lived in the wood near the court, and every night they came out of the
wood and threw down all that was built by day. So nobody could get the
court built.
"Would you make me a hole," said the old white garraun, "where I could
go in to hide whenever the people come to fetch me to the mill or the
kiln, so that they won't see me; for they tire me out doing work for
them?"
"I'll do that, indeed," said the tailor, "and welcome."
He brought his spade and shovel, and he made a hole, and he asked the
old white horse to go down into it so that he could see if it would fit
him. The white horse went down into the hole, but when he tried to come
up again, he was not able.
"Make a place for me now," said the white horse, "by which I can come up
out of the hole here, whenever I am hungry."
"I will not," said the tailor; "remain where you are until I come back,
and I'll lift you up."
The tailor went forward next day, and the fox met him.
"God save you," said the fox.
"God save you," said the tailor.
"Where are you going?" said the fox.
"I'm going to Dublin, to try to make a court for the king."
"Would you make a place for me where I can hide?" said the fox. "The
rest of the foxes are always beating me, and they will not allow me to
eat anything with them."
"I'll do that for you," said the tailor.
He took his axe and his saw, and he made a thing like a crate, and he
told the fox to get into it so that he could see whether it would fit
him. The fox went into it, and when the tailor had him down, he shut him
in. When the fox was satisfied at last that he had a nice place of it
within, he asked the tailor to let him out, and the tailor answered that
he would not.
"Wait there until I come back again," said he.
The tailor went forward the next day, and he had not walked very far
when he met a lion; and the lion greeted him.
"God save you," said the lion.
"God save you," said the tailor.
"Where are you going?" said the lion.
"I'm going to Dublin to make a court for the king if I am able to make
it," said the tailor.
"If you were to make a plough for me," said the lion, "I and the other
lions could be ploughing and harrowing until we'd have a bit to eat in
the harvest."
"I'll do that for you," said the tailor.
He brought his axe and his saw, and he made a plough. When the plough
was made he put a hole in the beam of it, and got the lion to go in
under the plough so that he might see if he was any good as a
ploughman. He placed the lion's tail in the hole he had made for it, and
then clapped in a peg, and the lion was not able to draw out his tail
again.
"Loose me now," said the lion, "and we'll fix ourselves and go
ploughing."
The tailor said he would not loose him until he came back himself. He
left him there then, and he came to Dublin.
When he arrived, he engaged workmen and began to build the court. At the
end of the day he had the workmen put a great stone on top of the work.
When the great stone was raised up, the tailor put some sort of
contrivance under it, that he might be able to throw it down as soon as
the giants came near to it. The workpeople then went home, and the
tailor went in hiding behind the big stone.
When the darkness of the night was come, he saw the three giants
arriving, and they began throwing down the court until they arrived at
the place where the tailor was in hiding up above, and one of them
struck a blow with his sledge on the place where he was. The tailor
threw down the stone, and it fell on him and killed him. The other two
went home then and left all of the court that was remaining without
throwing it down, since their companion was dead.
The workmen came again the next day, and they were working until night,
and as they were going home the tailor told them to put up the big
stone on the top of the work, as it had been the night before. They did
that for him, went home, and the tailor went in hiding the same as he
did the evening before.
When the people had all gone to rest, the two giants came, and they were
throwing down all that was before them, but as soon as they began, the
tailor commenced manoeuvring until he was able to throw down the great
stone, so that it fell upon the skull of the giant that was under him,
and it killed him. After this there was only the one giant left, and he
never came again until the court was finished.
Then when the work was over, the tailor went to the king and told him to
give him his wife and his money, as he had the court finished; and the
king said he would not give him any wife until he had killed the other
giant, for he said that it was not by his strength he had killed the two
giants before, and that he would give him nothing now until he killed
the other one for him. Then the tailor said that he would kill the other
giant for him, and welcome; that there should be no delay at all about
that.
The tailor went then till he came to the place where the other giant
was, and asked did he want a servant-boy. The giant said he did want
one, if he could get one who would do everything that he would do
himself.
"Anything that you will do, I will do," said the tailor.
They went to their dinner then, and when they had eaten it, the giant
asked the tailor "would he dare to swallow as much boiling broth as
himself." The tailor said, "I will certainly do that, but you must give
me an hour before we commence." The tailor went out then, and he got a
sheepskin, which he sewed up until he made a bag of it, and he slipped
it down under his coat. He came in then and told the giant first to
drink a gallon of the broth himself. The giant drank that up while it
was boiling. "I'll do that," said the tailor. He went on until it was
all poured into the skin, and the giant thought he had drunk it. The
giant drank another gallon then, and the tailor let another gallon down
into the skin, but the giant thought he was drinking it.
"I'll do a thing now that you will not dare to do," said the tailor.
"You will not," said the giant. "What is it you would do?"
"Make a hole and let out the broth again," said the tailor.
"Do it yourself first," said the giant.
The tailor gave a prod of the knife, and he let the broth out of the
skin.
"Now you do that," said he.
"I will," said the giant, giving such a prod of the knife into his own
stomach that he killed himself. That is the way the tailor killed the
third giant.
He went to the king then, and desired him to send him out his wife and
his money, saying that he would throw down the court again if he did not
do so immediately. They were afraid then that he would throw down the
court, and they sent the wife to him.
When the tailor was a day gone, himself and his wife, they repented and
followed him to take his wife away from him again. The people who went
after him followed him until they came to the place where the lion was,
and the lion said to them, "The tailor and his wife were here yesterday.
I saw them going by, and if you will loose me now, I am swifter than
you, and I will follow them until I overtake them." When they heard
that, they released the lion.
The lion and the people of Dublin went on, and pursued the tailor, until
they came to the place where the fox was, and the fox greeted them, and
said, "The tailor and his wife were here this morning, and if you will
loose me, I am swifter than you, and I will follow them, and overtake
them." They therefore set the fox free.
The lion and the fox and the army of Dublin went on then, trying to
catch the tailor, and they kept going until they came to the place
where the old white garraun was, and the old white garraun told them
that the tailor and his wife were there in the morning, and "Loose me,"
said he; "I am swifter than you, and I'll overtake them." They released
the old white garraun then, and the old white garraun, the fox, the
lion, and the army of Dublin pursued the tailor and his wife, and it was
not long before they came up with them.
When the tailor saw them coming, he got out of the coach with his wife,
and he sat down on the ground.
When the old white garraun saw the tailor sitting on the ground, he
said, "That's the position he was in when he made the hole for me, that
I couldn't get out of, when I went down into it. I'll go no nearer to
him."
"No!" said the fox, "but that's the way he was when he was making the
thing for me, and I'll go no nearer to him."
"No!" says the lion, "but that's the very way he had, when he was making
the plough that I was caught in. I'll go no nearer to him."
They all left him then and returned. The tailor and his wife came home
to Galway.
FOOTNOTES:
[32] From _Beside the Fire_, Douglas Hyde (David Nutt).
HOW THE SEA BECAME SALT
This story was told long ago by our Northern forefathers who brought it
with them in their dragon ships when they crossed the North Sea to
settle in England. In those days men were apt to invent stories to
account for things about them which seemed peculiar, and loving the sea
as they did, it is not strange that they had remarked the peculiarity of
the ocean water and had found a reason why it is so different from the
water in the rivers and steams.
This is not the only story that has come down to tell us how people of
old accounted for the sea being salt. There are many such stories, each
different from the other, all showing that the same childlike spirit of
inquiry was at work in different places, striving to find an answer to
this riddle of nature.
* * * * *
There sprang from the sons of Odin a race of men who became mighty kings
of the earth, and one of these, named Frode, ruled over the lands that
are called Denmark.
Now about this time were found in Denmark two great millstones, so large
that no one had the strength to turn them. So Frode sent for all the
wise men of the land and bade them examine the stones and tell him of
what use they were, since no one could grind with them.
And after the wise men had looked closely at them and read the magic
letters which were cut upon their edge, they said that the millstones
were precious indeed, since they would grind out of nothing anything
that the miller might wish.
So King Frode sent messengers over the world to find for him two
servants who would be strong enough to grind with the millstones, and
after a long, long time his messengers found him two maid-servants, who
were bigger and stronger than anyone in Denmark had ever seen. But no
one guessed that these were really Giant-Maidens who bore a grudge
against all of the race of Odin.
Directly the Giant-Maidens were brought before Frode, and before they
had rested after their long journey, or satisfied their hunger, he bade
them go to the mill, and grind for him gold and peace and happiness.
"They sang and swung
The swift mill stone,
And with loud voice
They made their moan.
'We grind for Frode
Wealth and gold
Abundant riches
He shall behold.'"
Presently Frode came into the mill to see that the new servants were
performing their task diligently. And as he watched them from the shadow
by the door, the maidens stayed their grinding for a while to rest.