THE STORY OF MERRYMIND
"Once upon a time there lived in the north country a certain poor man
and his wife, who had two corn-fields, three cows, five sheep, and
thirteen children. Twelve of these children were called by names common
in the north country--Hardhead, Stiffneck, Tightfingers, and the like;
but when the thirteenth came to be named, either the poor man and his
wife could remember no other name, or something in the child's look made
them think it proper, for they called him Merrymind, which the
neighbours thought a strange name, and very much above their station:
however, as they showed no other signs of pride, the neighbours let that
pass. Their thirteen children grew taller and stronger every year, and
they had hard work to keep them in bread; but when the youngest was old
enough to look after his father's sheep, there happened the great fair,
to which everybody in the north country went, because it came only once
in seven years, and was held on midsummer-day,--not in any town or
village, but on a green plain, lying between a broad river and a high
hill, where it was said the fairies used to dance in old and merry
times.
"Merchants and dealers of all sorts crowded to that fair from far and
near. There was nothing known in the north country that could not be
bought or sold in it, and neither old nor young were willing to go home
without a fairing. The poor man who owned this large family could afford
them little to spend in such ways; but as the fair happened only once
in seven years, he would not show a poor spirit. Therefore, calling them
about him, he opened the leathern bag in which his savings were stored,
and gave every one of the thirteen a silver penny.
"The boys and girls had never before owned so much pocket-money; and,
wondering what they should buy, they dressed themselves in their holiday
clothes, and set out with their father and mother to the fair. When they
came near the ground that midsummer morning, the stalls, heaped up with
all manner of merchandise, from gingerbread upwards, the tents for fun
and feasting, the puppet-shows, the rope-dancers, and the crowd of
neighbours and strangers, all in their best attire, made those simple
people think their north country fair the finest sight in the world. The
day wore away in seeing wonders, and in chatting with old friends. It
was surprising how far silver pennies went in those days; but before
evening twelve of the thirteen had got fairly rid of their money. One
bought a pair of brass buckles, another a crimson riband, a third green
garters; the father bought a tobacco-pipe, the mother a horn
snuffbox--in short, all had provided themselves with fairings except
Merrymind.
"The cause of the silver penny remaining in his pocket was that he had
set his heart upon a fiddle; and fiddles enough there were in the
fair--small and large, plain and painted: he looked at and priced the
most of them, but there was not one that came within the compass of a
silver penny. His father and mother warned him to make haste with his
purchase, for they must all go home at sunset, because the way was long.
[Illustration: Merrymind at the fair.]
"The sun was getting low and red upon the hill; the fair was growing
thin, for many dealers had packed up their stalls and departed; but
there was a mossy hollow in the great hill-side, to which the outskirts
of the fair had reached, and Merrymind thought he would see what might
be there. The first thing was a stall of fiddles, kept by a young
merchant from a far country, who had many customers, his goods being
fine and new; but hard by sat a little grey-haired man, at whom
everybody had laughed that day, because he had nothing on his stall but
one old dingy fiddle, and all its strings were broken. Nevertheless, the
little man sat as stately, and cried, 'Fiddles to sell!' as if he had
the best stall in the fair.
"'Buy a fiddle, my young master?' he said, as Merrymind came forward.
'You shall have it cheap: I ask but a silver penny for it; and if the
strings were mended, its like would not be in the north country.'
"Merrymind thought this a great bargain. He was a handy boy, and could
mend the strings while watching his father's sheep. So down went the
silver penny on the little man's stall, and up went the fiddle under
Merrymind's arm.
"'Now, my young master,' said the little man, 'you see that we merchants
have a deal to look after, and if you help me to bundle up my stall, I
will tell you a wonderful piece of news about that fiddle.'
"Merrymind was good-natured and fond of news, so he helped him to tie up
the loose boards and sticks that composed his stall with an old rope,
and when they were hoisted on his back like a fagot, the little man
said--
"'About that fiddle, my young master: it is certain the strings can
never be mended, nor made new, except by threads from the
night-spinners, which, if you get, it will be a good pennyworth;' and up
the hill he ran like a greyhound.
"Merrymind thought that was queer news, but being given to hope the
best, he believed the little man was only jesting, and made haste to
join the rest of the family, who were soon on their way home. When they
got there every one showed his bargain, and Merrymind showed his fiddle;
but his brothers and sisters laughed at him for buying such a thing when
he had never learned to play. His sisters asked him what music he could
bring out of broken strings; and his father said--
"'Thou hast shown little prudence in laying out thy first penny, from
which token I fear thou wilt never have many to lay out.'
"In short, everybody threw scorn on Merrymind's bargain except his
mother. She, good woman, said if he laid out one penny ill, he might lay
out the next better; and who knew but his fiddle would be of use some
day? To make her words good, Merrymind fell to repairing the strings--he
spent all his time, both night and day, upon them; but, true to the
little man's parting words, no mending would stand, and no string would
hold on that fiddle. Merrymind tried everything, and wearied himself to
no purpose. At last he thought of inquiring after people who spun at
night; and this seemed such a good joke to the north country people,
that they wanted no other till the next fair.
"In the meantime Merrymind lost credit at home and abroad. Everybody
believed in his father's prophecy; his brothers and sisters valued him
no more than a herd-boy; the neighbours thought he must turn out a
scapegrace. Still the boy would not part with his fiddle. It was his
silver pennyworth, and he had a strong hope of mending the strings for
all that had come and gone; but since nobody at home cared for him
except his mother, and as she had twelve other children, he resolved to
leave the scorn behind him, and go to seek his fortune.
"The family were not very sorry to hear of that intention, being in a
manner ashamed of him; besides, they could spare one out of thirteen.
His father gave him a barley cake, and his mother her blessing. All his
brothers and sisters wished him well. Most of the neighbours hoped that
no harm would happen to him; and Merrymind set out one summer morning
with the broken-stringed fiddle under his arm.
"There were no highways then in the north country--people took whatever
path pleased them best; so Merrymind went over the fair ground and up
the hill, hoping to meet the little man, and learn something of the
night-spinners. The hill was covered with heather to the top, and he
went up without meeting any one. On the other side it was steep and
rocky, and after a hard scramble down, he came to a narrow glen all
overgrown with wild furze and brambles. Merrymind had never met with
briars so sharp, but he was not the boy to turn back readily, and
pressed on in spite of torn clothes and scratched hands, till he came to
the end of the glen, where two paths met: one of them wound through a
pine-wood, he knew not how far, but it seemed green and pleasant. The
other was a rough, stony way leading to a wide valley surrounded by high
hills, and overhung by a dull, thick mist, though it was yet early in
the summer evening.
"Merrymind was weary with his long journey, and stood thinking of what
path to choose, when, by the way of the valley, there came an old man as
tall and large as any three men of the north country. His white hair and
beard hung like tangled flax about him; his clothes were made of
sackcloth; and on his back he carried a heavy burden of dust heaped high
in a great pannier.
"'Listen to me, you lazy vagabond!' he said, coming near to Merrymind:
'if you take the way through the wood I know not what will happen to
you; but if you choose this path you must help me with my pannier, and I
can tell you it's no trifle.'
"'Well, father,' said Merrymind, 'you seem tired, and I am younger than
you, though not quite so tall; so, if you please, I will choose this
way, and help you along with the pannier.'
"Scarce had he spoken when the huge man caught hold of him, firmly bound
one side of the pannier to his shoulders with the same strong rope that
fastened it on his own back, and never ceased scolding and calling him
names as they marched over the stony ground together. It was a rough way
and a heavy burden, and Merrymind wished himself a thousand times out of
the old man's company, but there was no getting off; and at length, in
hopes of beguiling the way, and putting him in better humour, he began
to sing an old rhyme which his mother had taught him. By this time they
had entered the valley, and the night had fallen very dark and cold. The
old man ceased scolding, and by a feeble glimmer of the moonlight, which
now began to shine, Merrymind saw that they were close by a deserted
cottage, for its door stood open to the night winds. Here the old man
paused, and loosed the rope from his own and Merrymind's shoulders.
"'For seven times seven years,' he said, 'have I carried this pannier,
and no one ever sang while helping me before. Night releases all men, so
I release you. Where will you sleep--by my kitchen fire, or in that cold
cottage?'
"Merrymind thought he had got quite enough of the old man's society,
and therefore answered--
"'The cottage, good father, if you please.'
"'A sound sleep to you, then!' said the old man, and he went off with
his pannier.
"Merrymind stepped into the deserted cottage. The moon was shining
through door and window, for the mist was gone, and the night looked
clear as day; but in all the valley he could hear no sound, nor was
there any trace of inhabitants in the cottage. The hearth looked as if
there had not been a fire there for years. A single article of furniture
was not to be seen; but Merrymind was sore weary, and, laying himself
down in a corner, with his fiddle close by, he fell fast asleep.
"The floor was hard, and his clothes were thin, but all through his
sleep there came a sweet sound of singing voices and spinning-wheels,
and Merrymind thought he must have been dreaming when he opened his eyes
next morning on the bare and solitary house. The beautiful night was
gone, and the heavy mist had come back. There was no blue sky, no bright
sun to be seen. The light was cold and grey, like that of mid-winter;
but Merrymind ate the half of his barley cake, drank from a stream hard
by, and went out to see the valley.
"It was full of inhabitants, and they were all busy in houses, in
fields, in mills, and in forges. The men hammered and delved; the women
scrubbed and scoured; the very children were hard at work: but Merrymind
could hear neither talk nor laughter among them. Every face looked
careworn and cheerless, and every word was something about work or gain.
"Merrymind thought this unreasonable, for everybody there appeared rich.
The women scrubbed in silk, the men delved in scarlet. Crimson curtains,
marble floors, and shelves of silver tankards were to be seen in every
house; but their owners took neither ease nor pleasure in them, and
every one laboured as it were for life.
"The birds of that valley did not sing--they were too busy pecking and
building. The cats did not lie by the fire--they were all on the watch
for mice. The dogs went out after hares on their own account. The cattle
and sheep grazed as if they were never to get another mouthful; and the
herdsmen were all splitting wood or making baskets.
"In the midst of the valley there stood a stately castle, but instead of
park and gardens, brew-houses and washing-greens lay round it. The gates
stood open, and Merrymind ventured in. The courtyard was full of
coopers. They were churning in the banquet hall. They were making cheese
on the dais, and spinning and weaving in all its principal chambers. In
the highest tower of that busy castle, at a window from which she could
see the whole valley, there sat a noble lady. Her dress was rich, but of
a dingy drab colour. Her hair was iron-grey; her look was sour and
gloomy. Round her sat twelve maidens of the same aspect, spinning on
ancient distaffs, and the lady spun as hard as they, but all the yarn
they made was jet black.
"No one in or out of the castle would reply to Merrymind's salutations,
nor answer him any questions. The rich men pulled out their purses,
saying, 'Come and work for wages!' The poor men said, 'We have no time
to talk!' A cripple by the wayside wouldn't answer him, he was so busy
begging; and a child by a cottage-door said it must go to work. All day
Merrymind wandered about With his broken-stringed fiddle, and all day he
saw the great old man marching round and round the valley with his heavy
burden of dust.
"'It is the dreariest valley that ever I beheld!' he said to himself.
'And no place to mend my fiddle in; but one would not like to go away
without knowing what has come over the people, or if they have always
worked so hard and heavily.'
"By this time the night again came on: he knew it by the clearing mist
and the rising moon. The people began to hurry home in all directions.
Silence came over house and field; and near the deserted cottage
Merrymind met the old man.
"'Good father,' he said, 'I pray you tell me what sport or pastime have
the people of this valley?'
"'Sport and pastime!' cried the old man, in great wrath. 'Where did you
hear of the like? We work by day and sleep by night. There is no sport
in Dame Dreary's land!' and, with a hearty scolding for his idleness and
levity, he left Merrymind to sleep once more in the cottage.
"That night the boy did not sleep so sound: though too drowsy to open
his eyes, he was sure there had been singing and spinning near him all
night; and, resolving to find out what this meant before he left the
valley, Merrymind ate the other half of his barley cake, drank again
from the stream, and went out to see the country.
"The same heavy mist shut out sun and sky; the same hard work went
forward wherever he turned his eyes; and the great old man with the
dust-pannier strode on his accustomed round. Merrymind could find no one
to answer a single question; rich and poor wanted him to work still more
earnestly than the day before; and fearing that some of them might press
him into service, he wandered away to the furthest end of the valley.
"There, there was no work, for the land lay bare and lonely, and was
bounded by grey crags, as high and steep as any castle-wall. There was
no passage or outlet, but through a great iron gate secured with a heavy
padlock: close by it stood a white tent, and in the door a tall soldier,
with one arm, stood smoking a long pipe. He was the first idle man
Merrymind had seen in the valley, and his face looked to him like that
of a friend; so coming up with his best bow, the boy said--
"'Honourable master soldier, please to tell me what country is this, and
why do the people work so hard?'
"'Are you a stranger in this place, that you ask such questions?'
answered the soldier.
"'Yes,' said Merrymind; 'I came but the evening before yesterday.'
"'Then I am sorry for you, for here you must remain. My orders are to
let everybody in and nobody out; and the giant with the dust-pannier
guards the other entrance night and day,' said the soldier.
"'That is bad news,' said Merrymind; 'but since I am here, please to
tell me why were such laws made, and what is the story of this valley?'
"'Hold my pipe, and I will tell you,' said the soldier, 'for nobody else
will take the time. This valley belongs to the lady of yonder castle,
whom, for seven times seven years, men have called Dame Dreary. She had
another name in her youth--they called her Lady Littlecare; and then the
valley was the fairest spot in all the north country. The sun shone
brightest there; the summers lingered longest. Fairies danced on the
hill-tops; singing-birds sat on all the trees. Strongarm, the last of
the giants, kept the pine-forest, and hewed yule logs out of it, when he
was not sleeping in the sun. Two fair maidens, clothed in white, with
silver wheels on their shoulders, came by night, and spun golden
threads by the hearth of every cottage. The people wore homespun, and
drank out of horn; but they had merry times. There were May-games,
harvest-homes and Christmas cheer among them. Shepherds piped on the
hill-sides, reapers sang in the fields, and laughter came with the red
firelight out of every house in the evening. All that was changed,
nobody knows how, for the old folks who remembered it are dead. Some say
it was because of a magic ring which fell from the lady's finger; some
because of a spring in the castle-court which went dry. However it was,
the lady turned Dame Dreary. Hard work and hard times overspread the
valley. The mist came down; the fairies departed; the giant Strongarm
grew old, and took up a burden of dust; and the night-spinners were seen
no more in any man's dwelling. They say it will be so till Dame Dreary
lays down her distaff, and dances; but all the fiddlers of the north
country have tried their merriest tunes to no purpose. The king is a
wise prince and a great warrior. He has filled two treasure-houses, and
conquered all his enemies; but he cannot change the order of Dame
Dreary's land. I cannot tell you what great rewards he offered to any
who could do it; but when no good came of his offers, the king feared
that similar fashions might spread among his people, and therefore made
a law that whomsoever entered should not leave it. His majesty took me
captive in war, and placed me here to keep the gate, and save his
subjects trouble. If I had not brought my pipe with me, I should have
been working as hard as any of them by this time, with my one arm. Young
master, if you take my advice you will learn to smoke.'
"'If my fiddle were mended it would be better,' said Merrymind; and he
sat talking with the soldier till the mist began to clear and the moon
to rise, and then went home to sleep in the deserted cottage.
"It was late when he came near it, and the moonlight night looked lovely
beside the misty day. Merrymind thought it was a good time for trying to
get out of the valley. There was no foot abroad, and no appearance of
the giant; but as Merrymind drew near to where the two paths met, there
was he fast asleep beside a fire of pinecones, with his pannier at his
head, and a heap of stones close by him. 'Is that your kitchen-fire?'
thought the boy to himself, and he tried to steal past; but Strongarm
started up, and pursued him with stones, and calling him bad names, half
way back to the cottage.
"Merrymind was glad to run the whole way for fear of him. The door was
still open, and the moon was shining in; but by the fireless hearth
there sat two fair maidens, all in white, spinning on silver wheels, and
singing together a blithe and pleasant tune like the larks on
May-morning. Merrymind could have listened all night, but suddenly he
bethought him that these must be the night-spinners, whose threads would
mend his fiddle; so, stepping with reverence and good courage, he said--
"'Honourable ladies, I pray you give a poor boy a thread to mend his
fiddle-strings.'
"'For seven times seven years,' said the fair maidens, 'have we spun by
night in this deserted cottage, and no mortal has seen or spoken to us.
Go and gather sticks through all the valley to make a fire for us on
this cold hearth, and each of us will give you a thread for your pains.'
"Merrymind took his broken fiddle with him, and went through all the
valley gathering sticks by the moonlight; but so careful were the people
of Dame Dreary's land, that scarce a stick could be found, and the moon
was gone, and the misty day had come before he was able to come back
with a small fagot. The cottage-door was still open; the fair maidens
and their silver wheels were gone; but on the floor where they sat lay
two long threads of gold.
"Merrymind first heaped up his fagot on the hearth, to be ready against
their coming at night, and next took up the golden threads to mend his
fiddle. Then he learned the truth of the little man's saying at the
fair, for no sooner were the strings fastened with those golden threads
than they became firm. The old dingy fiddle too began to shine and
glisten, and at length it was golden also. This sight made Merrymind so
joyful, that, unlearned as he was in music, the boy tried to play.
Scarce had his bow touched the strings when they began to play of
themselves the same blithe and pleasant tune which the night-spinners
sang together.
"'Some of the workers will stop for the sake of this tune,' said
Merrymind, and he went out along the valley with his fiddle. The music
filled the air; the busy people heard it; and never was such a day seen
in Dame Dreary's land. The men paused in their delving; the women
stopped their scrubbing; the little children dropped their work; and
every one stood still in their places while Merrymind and his fiddle
passed on. When he came to the castle, the coopers cast down their tools
in the court; the churning and cheesemaking ceased in the banquet hall;
the looms and spinning-wheels stopped in the principal chambers; and
Dame Dreary's distaff stood still in her hand.
"Merrymind played through the halls and up the tower-stairs. As he came
near, the dame cast down her distaff, and danced with all her might. All
her maidens did the like; and as they danced she grew young again--the
sourness passed from her looks, and the greyness from her hair. They
brought her the dress of white and cherry-colour she used to wear in her
youth, and she was no longer Dame Dreary, but the Lady Littlecare, with
golden hair, and laughing eyes, and cheeks like summer roses.
[Illustration: Dame Dreary dances and grows strong.]
"Then a sound of merrymaking came up from the whole valley. The heavy
mist rolled away over the hills; the sun shone out; the blue sky was
seen; a clear spring gushed up in the castle-court; a white falcon came
from the east with a golden ring, and put it on the lady's finger. After
that Strongarm broke the rope, tossed the pannier of dust from his
shoulder, and lay down to sleep in the sun. That night the fairies
danced on the hill-tops; and the night-spinners, with their silver
wheels, were seen by every hearth, and no more in the deserted cottage.
Everybody praised Merrymind and his fiddle; and when news of his
wonderful playing came to the king's ears, he commanded the iron gate
to be taken away; he made the captive soldier a free man; and promoted
Merrymind to be his first fiddler, which under that wise monarch was the
highest post in his kingdom.
"As soon as Merrymind's family and neighbours heard of the high
preferment his fiddle had gained for him, they thought music must be a
good thing, and man, woman, and child took to fiddling. It is said that
none of them ever learned to play a single tune except Merrymind's
mother, on whom her son bestowed great presents."
Here the voice ceased, and one clothed in green and russet-coloured
velvet rose up with a golden fiddle in his hand, and said--
"That's my story."
"Excepting yesterday's tale, and the five that went before it," said
King Winwealth, "I have not heard such a story as that since my brother
Wisewit went from me, and was lost in the forest. Fairfortune, the first
of my pages, go and bring this maiden a golden girdle. And since her
grandmother's chair can tell such stories, she shall go no more into
low company, but feast with us in our chief banquet hall, and sleep in
one of the best chambers of the palace!"