Produced by Hilary Caws-Elwitt in honor of Margaret Lippitt Rorison
EVERYMAN'S LIBRARY
EDITED BY ERNEST RHYS
CHILDREN'S BOOKS
GRANNY'S WONDERFUL CHAIR
WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY
DOLLIE RADFORD
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LIBRARY_ WILL BE PLEASED TO SEND
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BIOGRAPHY
ROMANCE
IN TWO STYLES OF BINDING, CLOTH,
FLAT BACK, COLOURED TOP, AND
LEATHER, ROUND CORNERS, GILT TOP.
LONDON : J. M. DENT & CO.
THIS IS
FAIRY
GOLD,
BOY; AND
'TWIL
PROVE SO
SHAKESPEARE
GRANNYS
WONDERFUL
CHAIR &
ITS TALES OF
FAIRY TIMES
BY FRANCES
BROWNE
LONDON: PUBLISHED
by J M DENT & CO
AND IN NEW YORK
BY E P DUTTON & CO
RICHARD CLAY & SONS, LIMITED,
BREAD STREET HILL, E.C., AND
BUNGAY, SUFFOLK
PREFACE
The writer of "Granny's Wonderful Chair" was a poet, and blind. That she
was a poet the story tells on every page, but of her blindness it tells
not a word. From beginning to end it is filled with pictures; each
little tale has its own picturesque setting, its own vividly realised
scenery. Her power of visualisation would be easy to understand had she
become blind in the later years of her life, when the beauties of the
physical world were impressed on her mind; but Frances Browne was blind
from infancy. The pictures she gives us in her stories were created, in
darkness, from material which came to her only through the words of
others. In her work are no blurred lines or uncertainties, her drawing
is done with a firm and vigorous hand. It would seem that the
completeness of her calamity created, within her, that serenity of
spirit which contrives the greatest triumphs in Life and in Art. Her
endeavour was to realise the world independently of her own personal
emotion and needs. She, who, out of her darkness and poverty, might have
touched us so surely with her longing for her birthright of light, for
her share of the world's good things, gives help and encouragement to
the more fortunate.
In reading the very few details of her life we feel the stimulation as
of watching one who, in a desperate fight, wins against great odds.
The odds against Frances Browne were heavy. She was born at Stranorlar,
a mountain village in Donegal, on January 16, 1816. Her
great-grandfather was a man of considerable property, which he
squandered; and the younger generation would seem to have inherited
nothing from its ancestor but his irresponsibility. Frances Browne's
father was the village post-master, and she, the seventh in a family of
twelve children, learning privation and endurance from the cradle. But
no soil is the wrong one for genius. Whether or not hers would have
developed more richly in more generous surroundings, it is difficult to
say. The strong mind that could, in blindness and poverty, secure its
own education, and win its way to the company of the best, the
thoroughly equipped and well tended, gained a victory which genius alone
made possible.
She was one of the elect, had no creative achievement crowned her
triumph.
She tells us how she herself learned by heart the lessons which her
brothers and sisters said aloud every evening, in readiness for the next
day's school; and how she bribed them to read to her by doing their
share of the household work.
When the usual bribe failed, she invented stories for them, and, in
return for these, books were read to her which, while they seemed dull
and uninteresting enough to the readers, built up for the eager listener
those enchanted steps by which she was to climb into her intellectual
kingdom.
Her habit was to say these lessons aloud at night, when every one else
was asleep, to impress untiringly upon her memory the knowledge for
which she persistently fought through the day.
There were no book-shops at Stranorlar, or within three counties of it,
and had there been one, Frances Browne had no pennies for the luxury of
books. But she had friends, and from those who were richer than herself
in possession, she borrowed her tools. From the village teacher she
learned French, in exchange for those lessons in grammar and geography
which, her brothers and sisters had given away to her, in return for
numberless wipings and scrubbings in the kitchen. Scott's novels marked
an era in her mental life; and of Pope's Iliad--which she heard read
when she was about fifteen--she says, "It was like the discovery of a
new world, and effected a total change in my ideas and thoughts on the
subject of poetry. There was at the time a considerable MS. of my own
production in existence, which of course I regarded with some
partiality; but Homer had awakened me, and in a fit of sovereign
contempt I committed the whole to the flames. After Homer's the work
that produced the greatest impression on my mind was Byron's 'Childe
Harold.' The one had induced me to burn my first MS., the other made me
resolve against verse-making in future."
Her first poem was written at the age of seven, but, after this resolve
of her fifteenth year, she wrote no more for nearly ten years. Then, in
1840, when she was four and twenty, a volume of Irish Songs was read to
her, and her own music reawakened. She wrote a poem called "The Songs of
our Land." It was published in the "Irish Penny Journal," and can be
found still in Duffy's "Ballad Poetry of Ireland." After this her poems
grew apace: she wrote lyrics for the "Athenaeum," "Hood's Magazine," and
"Lady Blessington's Keepsake." Her work was much appreciated, and her
poems were reprinted in many of the contemporary journals.
She published a complete volume of poems in 1844, and a second volume in
1848 which she called "Lyrics and Miscellaneous Poems."
The first use to which she put her literary earnings, was the education
of a sister, to be her reader and amanuensis. In Frances Browne's life
each step was in the direction of her goal. From its beginning to its
end the strong mind pressed unhesitatingly forward to its complete
development, seeking the inner light more steadfastly for the absence of
external vision.
Her income was a pension of L20, from the Royal Bounty Fund; and with
this, for all security, she set out, in 1847, with her sister to
Edinburgh, determined to make her own way in the literary world. At
leaving her native land she says:
"I go as one that comes no more, yet go without regret; The summers
other memories store 'twere summer to forget; I go without one parting
word, one grasp of parting hand, As to the wide air goes the bird--yet
fare thee well, my land!"
She quickly made friends in Edinburgh, won by her genius and character,
in the circle which included Christopher North. Her industry was
amazing: she wrote essays, reviews, leaders, lyrics, stories--indeed,
she wrote anything she was asked to write, and under the pressure of her
work her prose strengthened and developed. But all her energy could not
make her rich. "The waters of her lot," she says, "were often troubled,
though not by angels." Her own health interfered with her work, and,
from the beginning, she out of her own poverty tried to relieve that of
her mother.
In 1852 she moved to London, and here, by the gift of L100 from the
Marquis of Lansdowne, she was for the time released from the pressure of
daily necessity. She concentrated on a more important work than she had
yet attempted, and wrote a novel which she called "My Share of the
World."
It is written in the form of an autobiography of one Frederick
Favoursham, a youthful straggler through journalism and tutorship, who
wins nothing better, in the end, than a lonely possession of vast
estates. But one realises fully, in this story, the strength of a mind
whose endeavour is to probe the heart of things, and whose firm incisive
expression translates precisely what the mind discovers.
There are in this work, and it is natural it should be so, one or two
touches of self-revelation; the only ones, I think, which she, in all
her writing, permitted herself. She makes her hero say of his
mother--"Well I remember her old blue gown, her hands hard with rough
work, het still girlish figure and small pale face, from which the bloom
and the prettiness had gone so early; but the hard hand had, in its
kindly pressure, the only genuine love I ever knew; the pale face looks
yet on my sleep with a blessing, and the old gown has turned, in my
dreams, to the radiant robe of an angel."
And the delicate sensitive character of Lucy, the heroine, reads like
the expression of the writer's own personality: into it she has put a
touch of romance. In all her work there is never a word of personal
complaint, but the words she puts into the mouth of her hero, when Lucy
commits suicide, must have been born of her own suffering: "When the
burden outgrows the strength so far that moral as well as physical
energies begin to fail, and there is no door but death's that will
welcome our weariness, what remains but to creep into that quiet
shelter? I think it had come to that with Lucy. Her days were threatened
by a calamity, the most terrible in the list of human ills, which the
wise Manetho, the last of the Egyptians, with his brave Pagan heart and
large philosophy, thought good and sufficient warrant for a man's
resigning his place on the earth."
Among other mental qualities, she had, for the fortification of her
spirit, a sense of humour. In this same book she writes of "a little man
of that peculiar figure which looks as if a not very well filled sack
had somehow got legs;" and commenting on a little difficulty of her
hero's making, she says, "It is rather an awkward business to meet a
family at breakfast whose only son one has kicked overnight."
And how elastic and untarnished must that nature have been which, after
years of continuous struggle for bare subsistence, could put her
money-wise people on to paper and quietly say of them that "To keep a
daily watch over passing pence did not disturb the Fentons--it was a
mental exercise suited to their capacities." The turning of that
sentence was surely an exquisite pleasure to its author. And "My Share
of the World" is full of cleverly-turned sentences--"Hartley cared for
nobody, and I believe the corollary of the miller's song was verified in
his favour."
But we must not linger longer over her novel, its pages are full of
passages which tell of the vigorous quality of her mind.
Frances Browne's poetry is as impersonal as her prose. She belonged to
the first order of artists, if there be distinction in our gratitude.
The material with which she tried to deal was Life--apart from
herself--a perhaps bigger, and, certainly, a harder piece of work than
the subjective expression of a single personality.
The subjects of her poems are in many lands and periods. The most
ambitious--"The Star of Atteghei"--is a tale of Circassia, another is of
a twelfth-century monk and the philosopher's stone, another of an Arab;
and another is of that Cyprus tree which is said to have been planted at
the birth of Christ, and to spare which Napoleon deviated from his
course when he ordered the making of the road over the Simplon.
"Why came it not, when o'er my life
A cloud of darkness hung,
When years were lost in fruitless strife,
But still my heart was young?
How hath the shower forgot the spring,
And fallen on Autumn's withering?"
These lines are from a poem called "The Unknown Crown." The messenger
who came to tell Tasso the laureate crown had been decreed him, found
him dying in a convent.
Then she has verses on Boston, on Protestant Union in New England, on
the Abolition of Slavery in the United States, on the Parliament grant
for the improvement of the Shannon. Her mind compelled externals to its
use.
A love of nature was in her soul, a perception of the beauty of the
world. She, with her poet's spirit, saw all the green and leafy places
of the earth, all its flowery ways--while they, may be, were trodden
heedlessly by those about her with their gift of sight.
"Sing on by fane and forest old
By tombs and cottage eaves,
And tell the waste of coming flowers
The woods of coming leaves;--
The same sweet song that o'er the birth
Of earliest blossoms rang,
And caught its music from the hymn
The stars of morning sang."
("The Birds of Spring.")
"Ye early minstrels of the earth,
Whose mighty voices woke
The echoes of its infant woods,
Ere yet the tempest spoke;
How is it that ye waken still
The young heart's happy dreams,
And shed your light on darkened days
O bright and blessed streams?"
("Streams.")
"Words--words of hope!--oh! long believed,
As oracles of old,
When stars of promise have deceived.
And beacon-fires grown cold!
Though still, upon time's stormy steeps,
Such sounds are faint and few,
Yet oft from cold and stranger lips
Hath fallen that blessed dew,--
That, like the rock-kept rain, remained
When many a sweeter fount was drained."
("Words.")
Many and many such verses there are which might be quoted, but her work
for children is waiting.--For them she wrote many stories, and in their
employ her imagination travelled into many lands. The most popular was
"Granny's Wonderful Chair," published in 1856. It was at once a
favourite, and quickly out of print, and, strangely enough, was not
reprinted until 1880. Then new editions were issued in 1881, '82, '83,
'84, '87, and '89. In 1887 Mrs. Frances Hodgson Burnet published it,
with a preface, under the title "Stories from the Lost Fairy Book,"
re-told by the child who read them. "The Lost Fairy Book" was "Granny's
Wonderful Chair."
One has not far to read to discover the secret of its popularity with
children. It is full of word-pictures, of picturesque settings. Her
power of visualisation is shown in these fairy-tales more, perhaps, than
in any other of her writings. Truly, she was fortunate in having the
Irish fairies to lead her into their gossamer-strewn ways, to touch her
fancy with their magic, and put upon her the glamour of their land. When
the stories are of them she is, perhaps, at her best; but each story in
the book makes a complete picture, each has enough and no more of colour
and scene. And the little pictures are kept in their places, pinned down
to reality, by delightful touches of humour. Of the wonderful chair Dame
Frostyface says in the beginning of the story, "It was made by a cunning
fairy who lived in the forest when I was young, and she gave it to me
because she knew nobody would keep what they got hold of better."
How did a writer who never saw a coach, or a palace, or the picture of a
coach or a palace, tell of the palace and the people and the multitudes,
of the roasting and boiling, of the spiced ale and the dancing?
Whence came her vision of the old woman who weaved her own hair into
grey cloth at a crazy loom; of the fortified city in the plain, with
cornfields and villages; of floors of ebony and ceilings of silver; of
swallows that built in the eaves while the daisies grew thick at the
door?
Had her descriptions been borrowed, the wonder of them would cease. But
her words are her own, and they are used sparingly, as by one who sees
too vividly what she is describing to add one unnecessary or indistinct
touch. She seems as much at home under the sea, among hills of marble
and rocks of spa, as with the shepherds on the moorland, or when she
tells of the spring and the budding of the topmost boughs.
The enrichment of little Snowflower, by the King's gifts, links these
stories together as artistically as the telling of the princess's
raiment in that beautiful book "A Digit of the Moon;" and right glad we
are when the poorly clad little girl takes her place among the grand
courtiers, and is led away to happiness by the Prince.
Frances Browne's list of contributions to children's literature is a
long one. In reading these books one is surprised by the size of her
imaginative territory; by the diversity of the knowledge she acquired.
One, "The Exile's Trust," is a story of the French Revolution, in which
Charlotte Corday is introduced; and in it are descriptions of the
scenery of Lower Normandy; another, "The First of the African Diamonds,"
is a tale of the Dutch and the banks of the Orange River. Then, in "The
Young Foresters," she conducts her young heroes to Archangel, to see the
fine frost and clear sky, the long winter nights and long summer days,
to adventure with wolves in the forest and with pirates by sea.
In "The Dangerous Guest" she is in the time of the Young Pretender, and
in "The Eriksons," "The Clever Boy," and "Our Uncle the Traveller," she
wanders far and wide.
In reviewing her subjects one realises afresh the richness of the world
she created within her own darkness.
A wonderful law of Exchange keeps safe the precious things of Life, and
it operates by strange and unexpected means. In this instance it was
most beautifully maintained; for Frances Browne, the iron of calamity
was transmuted to gold.
Thus it has been, and thus it shall be; so long as the world shall last,
circumstance shall not conquer a strong and beautiful spirit.
D. R.
_August_ 1906.
Bibliography
The following are the works of Frances Browne:
The Star of Atteghei; The Vision of Schwartz, and other Poems, 1844;
Lyrics and Miscellaneous Poems, 1848; The Ericksens; The Clever Boy, or
Consider One Another, 1852; Pictures and Songs of Home, 1856; Granny's
Wonderful Chair, and its Tales of Fairy Times: illustrated by Kenny
Meadows, 1857; illustrated by Mr. Seymour Lucas, 1891, 1900; with an
introduction by F. Hodgson Burnett, entitled The Story of the Lost Fairy
Book, 1904; Our Uncle the Traveller's Stories, 1859; The Young
Foresters; The Orphans of Elfholm (Magnet Stories, 1860, etc., coll.
ed. 1864); My Share of the World: an Autobiography, 3 vols., 1861; The
Castleford Case, 3 vols., 1862; The Hidden Sin, 1866; The Exile's Trust:
a Tale of the French Revolution, and other Stories, 1869; My Nearest
Neighbour, and other Stories, 1875; The Foundling of the Fens: a Story
of a Flood, 1886; The Dangerous Guest: a Story of 1745, 1886; The First
of the African Diamonds, 1887.
CONTENTS
CHAP. PAGE
I. INTRODUCTORY 3
II. THE CHRISTMAS CUCKOO 17
III. THE LORDS OF THE WHITE AND GREY CASTLES 48
IV. THE GREEDY SHEPHERD 72
V. THE STORY OF FAIRYFOOT 84
VI. THE STORY OF CHILDE CHARITY 105
VII. SOUR AND CIVIL 120
VIII. THE STORY OF MERRYMIND 146
IX. PRINCE WISEWIT'S RETURN 170
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
PAGE
Granny's Wonderful Chair 2
The fortified city 9
The cuckoo with the gold and green leaves 25
The cobbler Spare receives a royal messenger 31
The page Tinseltoes throws the doublet out of the window 39
Woodwender and Loveleaves tend the swine 53
The gay young hunter comes to Woodwender and Loveleaves 65
Clutch returns with his sack 82
The Princess Maybloom 95
The old woman begs at the door 108
Civil and the three sea maidens 127
Merrymind at the fair 149
Dame Dreary dances and grows strong 167
Prince Wisewit, disguised as a bird, escapes out of the window 173
[Illustration: GRANNY'S WONDERFUL CHAIR]
Granny's Wonderful Chair
CHAPTER I
INTRODUCTORY
In an old time, long ago, when the fairies were in the world, there
lived a little girl so uncommonly fair and pleasant of look, that they
called her Snowflower. This girl was good as well as pretty. No one had
ever seen her frown or heard her say a cross word, and young and old
were glad when they saw her coming.
Snowflower had no relation in the world but a very old grandmother,
called Dame Frostyface; people did not like her quite so well as her
granddaughter, for she was cross enough at times, but always kind to
Snowflower; and they lived together in a little cottage built of peat,
and thatched with reeds, on the edge of a great forest; tall trees
sheltered its back from the north wind; the mid-day sun made its front
warm and cheerful; swallows built in the eaves; daisies grew thick at
the door; but there were none in all that country poorer than Snowflower
and her grandmother. A cat and two hens were all their live-stock: their
bed was dry grass, and the only good piece of furniture in the cottage
was a great arm-chair with wheels on its feet, a black velvet cushion,
and many curious carvings of flowers and fawns on its dark oaken back.
On that chair Dame Frostyface sat spinning from morning till night to
maintain herself and her granddaughter, while Snowflower gathered sticks
for firing, looked after the hens and the cat, and did whatever else her
grandmother bade her. There was nobody in the shire could spin such fine
yarn as Dame Frostyface, but she spun very slowly. Her wheel was as old
as herself, and far the more worn; indeed, the wonder was that it did
not fall to pieces. So the dame's earnings were small, and their living
meagre. Snowflower, however, felt no want of good dinners or fine
clothes. Every evening, when the fire was heaped with the sticks she had
gathered till it blazed and crackled up the cottage chimney, Dame
Frostyface set aside her wheel, and told her a new story. Often did the
little girl wonder where her grandmother had gathered so many stories,
but she soon learned that. One sunny morning, at the time of the
swallows coming, the dame rose up, put on the grey hood and mantle in
which she carried her yarn to the fairs, and said, "My child, I am going
a long journey to visit an aunt of mine, who lives far in the north
country. I cannot take you with me, because my aunt is the crossest
woman alive, and never liked young people: but the hens will lay eggs
for you; there is barley-meal in the barrel; and, as you have been a
good girl, I'll tell you what to do when you feel lonely. Lay your head
gently down on the cushion of the arm-chair, and say, 'Chair of my
grandmother, tell me a story.' It was made by a cunning fairy, who lived
in the forest when I was young, and she gave it to me because she knew
nobody could keep what they got hold of better. Remember, you must never
ask a story more than once in the day; and if there be any occasion to
travel, you have only to seat yourself in it, and say, 'Chair of my
grandmother, take me such a way.' It will carry you wherever you wish;
but mind to oil the wheels before you set out, for I have sat on it
these forty years in that same corner."
Having said this, Dame Frostyface set forth to see her aunt in the north
country. Snowflower gathered firing and looked after the hens and cat as
usual. She baked herself a cake or two of the barley-meal; but when the
evening fell the cottage looked lonely. Then Snowflower remembered her
grandmother's words, and, laying her head gently down, she said, "Chair
of my grandmother, tell me a story."
Scarce were the words spoken, when a clear voice from under the velvet
cushion began to tell a new and most wonderful tale, which surprised
Snowflower so much that she forgot to be frightened. After that the good
girl was lonely no more. Every morning she baked a barley cake, and
every evening the chair told her a new story; but she could never find
out who owned the voice, though Snowflower showed her gratitude by
polishing up the oaken back, and dusting the velvet cushion, till the
chair looked as good as new. The swallows came and built in the eaves,
the daisies grew thicker than ever at the door; but great misfortunes
fell upon Snowflower. Notwithstanding all her care, she forgot to clip
the hens' wings, and they flew away one morning to visit their friends,
the pheasants, who lived far in the forest; the cat followed them to see
its relations; the barley-meal was eaten up, except a couple of
handfuls; and Snowflower had often strained her eyes in hopes of seeing
the grey mantle, but there was no appearance of Dame Frostyface.
"My grandmother stays long," said Snowflower to herself; "and by and by
there will be nothing to eat. If I could get to her, perhaps she would
advise me what to do; and this is a good occasion for travelling."
Next day, at sunrise, Snowflower oiled the chair's wheels, baked a cake
out of the last of the meal, took it in her lap by way of provision for
the journey, seated herself, and said, "Chair of my grandmother, take me
the way she went."
Presently the chair gave a creak, and began to move out of the cottage,
and into the forest the very way Dame Frostyface had taken, where it
rolled along at the rate of a coach and six. Snowflower was amazed at
this style of travelling, but the chair never stopped nor stayed the
whole summer day, till as the sun was setting they came upon an open
space, where a hundred men were hewing down the tall trees with their
axes, a hundred more were cleaving them for firewood, and twenty
waggoners, with horses and waggons, were carrying the wood away. "Oh!
chair of my grandmother, stop!" said Snowflower, for she was tired, and
also wished to know what this might mean. The chair immediately stood
still, and Snowflower, seeing an old woodcutter, who looked civil,
stepped up to him, and said, "Good father, tell me why you cut all this
wood?"
"What ignorant country girl are you?" replied the man, "not to have
heard of the great feast which our sovereign, King Winwealth, means to
give on the birthday of his only daughter, the Princess Greedalind. It
will last seven days. Everybody will be feasted, and this wood is to
roast the oxen and the sheep, the geese and the turkeys, amongst whom
there is a great lamentation throughout the land."
When Snowflower heard that she could not help wishing to see, and
perhaps share in, such a noble feast, after living so long on barley
cakes; so, seating herself, she said, "Chair of my grandmother, take me
quickly to the palace of King Winwealth."
The words were hardly spoken, when off the chair started through the
trees and out of the forest, to the great amazement of the woodcutters,
who, never having seen such a sight before, threw down their axes, left
their waggons, and followed Snowflower to the gates of a great and
splendid city, fortified with strong walls and high towers, and standing
in the midst of a wide plain covered with cornfields, orchards, and
villages.
[Illustration: The fortified city.]
It was the richest city in all the land; merchants from every quarter
came there to buy and sell, and there was a saying that people had only
to live seven years in it to make their fortunes. Rich as they were,
however, Snowflower thought she had never seen so many discontented,
covetous faces as looked out from the great shops, grand houses, and
fine coaches, when her chair rattled along the streets; indeed, the
citizens did not stand high in repute for either good-nature or honesty;
but it had not been so when King Winwealth was young, and he and his
brother, Prince Wisewit, governed the land together--Wisewit was a
wonderful prince for knowledge and prudence. He knew the whole art of
government, the tempers of men, and the powers of the stars; moreover,
he was a great magician, and it was said of him that he could never die
or grow old. In his time there was neither discontent nor sickness in
the city--strangers were hospitably entertained without price or
questions. Lawsuits there were none, and no one locked his door at
night. The fairies used to come there at May-day and Michaelmas, for
they were Prince Wisewit's friends--all but one, called Fortunetta, a
shortsighted but very cunning fairy, who hated everybody wiser than
herself, and the prince especially, because she could never deceive
him.
There was peace and pleasure for many a year in King Winwealth's city,
till one day at midsummer Prince Wisewit went alone to the forest, in
search of a strange herb for his garden, but he never came back; and
though the king, with all his guards, searched far and near, no news was
ever heard of him. When his brother was gone, King Winwealth grew lonely
in his great palace, so he married a certain princess, called Wantall,
and brought her home to be his queen. This princess was neither handsome
nor agreeable. People thought she must have gained the king's love by
enchantment, for her whole dowry was a desert island, with a huge pit in
it that never could be filled, and her disposition was so covetous, that
the more she got the greedier she grew. In process of time the king and
queen had an only daughter, who was to be the heiress of all their
dominions. Her name was the Princess Greedalind, and the whole city were
making preparations to celebrate her birthday--not that they cared much
for the princess, who was remarkably like her mother both in looks and
temper, but being King Winwealth's only daughter, people came from far
and near to the festival, and among them strangers and fairies who had
not been there since the day of Prince Wisewit.
There was surprising bustle about the palace, a most noble building, so
spacious that it had a room for every day in the year. All the floors
were of ebony, and all the ceilings of silver, and there was such a
supply of golden dishes used by the household, that five hundred armed
men kept guard night and day lest any of them should be stolen. When
these guards saw Snowflower and her chair, they ran one after the other
to tell the king, for the like had never been seen nor heard of in his
dominions, and the whole court crowded out to see the little maiden and
her chair that came of itself.
When Snowflower saw the lords and ladies in their embroidered robes and
splendid jewels, she began to feel ashamed of her own bare feet and
linen gown; but at length taking courage, she answered all their
questions, and told them everything about her wonderful chair. The queen
and the princess cared for nothing that was not gilt. The courtiers had
learned the same fashion, and all turned away in high disdain except the
old king, who, thinking the chair might amuse him sometimes when he got
out of spirits, allowed Snowflower to stay and feast with the scullion
in his worst kitchen. The poor little girl was glad of any quarters,
though nobody made her welcome--even the servants despised her bare feet
and linen gown. They would give her chair no room but in a dusty corner
behind the back door, where Snowflower was told she might sleep at
night, and eat up the scraps the cook threw away.
That very day the feast began; it was fine to see the multitudes of
coaches and people on foot and on horseback who crowded to the palace,
and filled every room according to their rank. Never had Snowflower seen
such roasting and boiling. There was wine for the lords and spiced ale
for the common people, music and dancing of all kinds, and the best of
gay dresses; but with all the good cheer there seemed little merriment,
and a deal of ill-humour in the palace.
Some of the guests thought they should have been feasted in grander
rooms; others were vexed to see many finer than themselves. All the
servants were dissatisfied because they did not get presents. There was
somebody caught every hour stealing the cups, and a multitude of people
were always at the gates clamouring for goods and lands, which Queen
Wantall had taken from them. The guards continually drove them away, but
they came back again, and could be heard plainly in the highest banquet
hall: so it was not wonderful that the old king's spirits got uncommonly
low that evening after supper. His favourite page, who always stood
behind him, perceiving this, reminded his majesty of the little girl and
her chair.
"It is a good thought," said King Winwealth. "I have not heard a story
this many a year. Bring the child and the chair instantly!"
The favourite page sent a messenger to the first kitchen, who told the
master-cook, the master-cook told the kitchen-maid, the kitchen-maid
told the chief-scullion, the chief-scullion told the dust-boy, and he
told Snowflower to wash her face, rub up her chair, and go to the
highest banquet hall, for the great king Winwealth wished to hear a
story.
Nobody offered to help her, but when Snowflower had made herself as
smart as she could with soap and water, and rubbed the chair till it
looked as if dust had never fallen on it, she seated herself, and
said:--"Chair of my grandmother, take me to the highest banquet hall."
Instantly the chair marched in a grave and courtly fashion out of the
kitchen, up the grand staircase, and into the highest hall. The chief
lords and ladies of the land were entertained there, besides many
fairies and notable people from distant countries. There had never been
such company in the palace since the time of Prince Wisewit; nobody wore
less than embroidered satin. King Winwealth sat on his ivory throne in a
robe of purple velvet, stiff with flowers of gold; the queen sat by his
side in a robe of silver cloth, clasped with pearls; but the Princess
Greedalind was finer still, the feast being in her honour. She wore a
robe of cloth of gold clasped with diamonds; two waiting-ladies in white
satin stood, one on either side, to hold her fan and handkerchief; and
two pages, in gold-lace livery, stood behind her chair. With all that
Princess Greedalind looked ugly and spiteful; she and her mother were
angry to see a barefooted girl and an old chair allowed to enter the
banquet hall.
The supper-table was still covered with golden dishes, and the best of
good things, but no one offered Snowflower a morsel: so, having made an
humble courtesy to the king, the queen, the princess, and the good
company, most of whom scarcely noticed her, the poor little girl sat
down upon the carpet, laid her head on the velvet cushion, as she used
to do in the old cottage, and said:--"Chair of my grandmother, tell me a
story."
Everybody was astonished, even to the angry queen and the spiteful
princess, when a clear voice from under the cushion, said:--"Listen to
the story of the Christmas Cuckoo!"