A long time ago, near a village of the Oberharz, was a little house
of rough stone, with gay wallflowers growing in the mossy patches on
its thatched roof. Its windows were small and crooked, and a bake-oven
bulged the wall on one side of its low vine-studded door.
In the clean swept yard, marigolds marched in two yellow ranks up the
broken flagged walk, and a tall linden drooped over the attic window of
its high pitched roof, where little Hans and his sister Gerta slept.
Behind the house was the forest, and then the mountain crags, all very
quiet, with only a goat’s bell tinkling now and then, or the twit of
a swallow. And up beyond the house and forest and crags was the great
mountain, the Vorharz.
On the mountain, the streams ran bright and clear over bolder and
smooth, pebbly bottom, lingering in cool ferny places where the
quaking aspen bent and sweet red raspberries grew.
On the mountain, the rough crags and peaks loomed barely about the
shadowy canons and valleys, on up to where the everlasting snows gleam
coldly under the starlight, or glow, roseate, in the light of the
dawning.
Little Hans was bold and wayward, and if it had not been for Gerta,
he would have given their parents no end of care. But she, being a
year older, looked after him, and at nightfall she often had to go in
search of him, for he was always running here and there, in forest and
village, even venturing up on the crags, which were brown rocks, bare,
save for a bit of juniper or a stunted fir-tree jutting from the side
of the mountain, with dark caves where the most daring goatherd or
bravest hunter feared to go.
These they called the berg caves. And when the oldest grandmother in
the village sat before her fire late one afternoon with a little crowd
of children about her, little Hans stood by her chair to hear her tales
of the kobolds, who haunted the berg caves. Woe betide him who slept
beside one of them, for he would vanish, and the world would know him
no more, for he toiled deep inside the mountain, a slave to the Kobold
king, until some one was brave enough to venture by night within the
caves and, reaching the king’s throne, demand the prisoner’s release.
But never, said the grandmother, never in all the years, had one been
found willing to go; and never had one who vanished thus returned.
It became twilight as she talked, and little Hans’ mother was bustling
about in their home setting forth the supper. So Gerta must run to the
oldest grandmother’s house and bring home little Hans.
At supper, he was full of the kobolds; but his father declared it was
no good luck to talk of the little folk. “But father, last night, when
all were abed, I heard you and mother speak of how poor we are and how
you dreaded the long winter coming. In the mountains, father, are all
kinds of gold and precious stones, Grossmutter says.” But his father
stopped his chatter, and, supper over, they were soon all abed.
But long after all was quiet and the cricket was chirping by the
smoldering hearth, Gerta heard little Hans mutter in his sleep. “Silver
and gold and all manner of precious stones;” and when she awoke in the
morning, the attic window stood open and little Hans was gone.
He had climbed from the roof into the linden-tree and gone off in the
moonlight to hunt the gold of the kobold king.
Goatherds and chamois hunters for miles around aided in the search for
him, as well as the village neighbors; but after a week of seeking, the
lost boy could not be found, and he was mourned as dead. But not by
little Gerta. She was very sure, in her heart, that he was far within
the berg caves, a slave to the kobolds; but as no one believed her, she
finally came to say no more about it. Yet every day, as she followed
their goats as they minced daintily along to join the village herd, she
fell into a way of asking every swift-winged swallow, every darting
fish, every golden butterfly, “Where is little Hans?”
One evening, at sunset, when all the peaks were rose, and all the
valleys purple patches on the dusky mountainsides, and the goatherds’
horns blew sweet and high as they gathered their flocks,--just then,
as she stood by the dripping basin of the spring in her garden, she
saw a toad slip out from beneath and sit with half shut jeweled eyes,
darting his slender tongue to catch the midges dancing in the last
sunbeams.
Again little Gerta asked, as she had so often, “Oh, where is little
Hans?” And a tiny, lisping voice answered, “Serving the kobolds under
Oberharz.”
The toad then hopped away, and Gerta, hardly believing her ears, could
not be sure that it was he who had spoken; yet as he went through
a broken place in the wall, he turned his head and blinked at her
knowingly. But when she told her father and mother, they thought she
had dreamed it.
All that night little Gerta could not sleep. The tree-frogs chirped
“Little Hans,” the sleeping swallows, twittering under the eaves in
their dreaming, seemed to sound his name. A nightingale came and sat
in the linden-tree, and the moon peered palely in from behind the dark
little bird with the silvery voice singing of lost love and longing.
“She means little Hans,” thought Gerta, and two big tears slipped down
her cheeks.
At that hour when the world wakes and turns over in its bed to sleep
again until sunrise, when the cocks were crowing the shrill high
call of the false dawn, she could endure it no longer. Running to the
window, she looked out into the dark, starry sky. The air was chill,
and she shivered as she began to dress. Taking her little red, hooded
cloak, she climbed over the window-sill and out into the linden-tree.
“O mother-linden, do not let me fall!” she whispered, and the rustling
new leaves seemed to answer, “Climb down and do not fear.”
Soon Gerta was on the ground, soon across the yard and garden, and into
the forest. Strange to say, the trees that seemed so dark from her
window seemed now but great lacy fans, through which the stars sparkled
like spangles; and a smooth, mossy path lay under her feet, as she
hurried on, eager to reach the berg caves.
The trees were now farther apart, and as Gerta went higher, the bare
rock began to show, with only a bit of juniper or a stunted fir here
and there.
Then the crags overhung her, and in the starlight the little sister
climbed and climbed, cold and dizzy. But she kept on until, as she
pulled herself up over a ledge, she stumbled over something soft and
furry, and sat down with a gasp as a small, squeaky voice said crossly,
“Look where you are going, child; you nearly spoiled my fine velvet
cloak.” Two bright eyes gleamed at her, and sharp little teeth snapped
at her hand.
“Ah, Herr Mole,” cried Gerta, never heeding his bad temper, “tell me,
have you seen little Hans? Is he in the kobolds’ cave?”
Herr Mole was not really cross, and he liked Gerta’s respectful
address. On her finger shone a thin silver ring.
“Well, now,” answered he, “I have seen him lately, and if you will give
me that shining band on your finger for a bracelet, I’ll tell you.”
After slipping it on his front paw, Herr Mole continued:
“Little Hans came this way when the moon was first quarter, and went
straight into a band of kobolds making their usual rounds.”
Gerta looked about anxiously. “Do not be afraid; it is too near morning
for them now. They carried him inside the berg, and if you will go to
the entrance up above us there, my friend, the great white owl, will no
doubt help you find him.”
So saying, Herr Mole hurried away, turning his paw this way and that to
get a good look at his new bracelet.
At the mouth of the cave, Gerta was stopped by a stern “Who--Who are
you?” And there were two fiery balls of light above her head in the
center of the dark arch. But it was only the great white owl, who came
down at her call and was very polite when he heard she had been sent
by his crony, Herr Mole. “Oh, yes,” he had seen little Hans go by with
the kobolds; but Gerta must give him that shining clasp at her throat
before he would tell her how to follow. Gerta slipped off the little
brass cloak clasp and hung it around his neck on her hair-ribbon.
The great white owl then led her inside the cave and showed her a point
of light far down in its black depths.
“That is the light of the kobolds’ fire, and all day and half the night
must little Hans delve coals to keep it bright, for if it should die,
the kobolds would all fall asleep and not wake again for a thousand
years. Do not be afraid of the dark, little Gerta, for to eyes that
really see there is no darkness.”
Then Gerta noticed that, though all was black as night, she could see
quite well indeed, and she left the great white owl sitting like a big
ball of down, his eyes rolling like yellow moons as he craned his great
round head to admire his necklace.
Walking resolutely on over the slippery, mossy stones, Gerta was
finally stopped by a whirr and a shrill “Cheet--cheet,” like the twit
of a swallow and a mouse’s squeak combined. Something big and dark
fanned her cheek, and down flew a big black bat, menacing her with
sharp teeth and extended claws.
“Good evening, Frau Bat,” cried Gerta in a trembling tone, for the bat
looked very big and fierce. “Have you seen little Hans? The great white
owl sent me this way in search of him!”
Frau Bat drew back, mollified by this respectful address. “Indeed,
child, I have seen little Hans. I know you both from having flitted
past your attic window many an evening as you went to bed. But before I
tell you news of him, you must give me that pretty red cloak to line my
nest.”
So Gerta gladly laid the cloak at Frau Bat’s feet, who directed her
how to slip unseen into the kobold hall, and gave her this counsel:
“Do not speak, laugh, or eat while you are in the hall! Put this bit
of my fur into your shoe, and you will be invisible to all but little
Hans. And if you can find a way to quench the kobold fires, they will
all fall asleep for a thousand years, and little Hans will be free.”
Thanking her kindly, Gerta passed on, and finally came into a large
hall, where glittering pendants hung from the high rocky ceiling; and
all around the room sat queer little brown men, with long beards and
pointed caps, wherein a tiny lamp glared. Taller and stouter and with
a far longer beard of snowy white, sat the kobold king on a golden
throne, with a crown of gold on his head; and his light burned brighter
than all the rest.
Before each kobold was a little table laid with a fair white cloth,
whereon were rich foods in golden dishes and silver goblets of
sparkling wine. In the center of the hall was a sort of iron brazier of
giant size, and in it flamed a great fire. From time to time a stooped
black figure toiled up from a pit behind the king’s throne with a sack
of coal on its back, and when it came shrinking into the light, jeered
and taunted by the kobolds, poor Gerta thought her heart would break,
for the poor slave who fed the fire was little Hans dressed in sooty
rags and his fair face and yellow locks black as ink. He rarely lifted
his head, but as he turned for more fuel, a kobold, rougher than the
rest, pushed him against the brazier, and they laughed at his scream
of pain as the burning sleeve scorched his arm. Gerta, forgetful of
everything, ran behind the little man, and, catching him by his beard,
pounded him over the head with his heavy silver cup.
Then they all jumped from their seats, rushing about to find what had
hurt their comrade; but, Gerta, invisible, had slipped through the
crowd, beckoned little Hans to follow her, and run down into the coal
pit, where she stifled her brother’s cries of joy in her apron.
As it was nearly dawn, the time when the kobolds sleep for an hour,
they were left alone, for each kobold fell asleep right where he sat
or stood as the sun began to rise, and the sister and brother plotted
and planned, though she could speak only by signs, until Hans was again
driven to his task, and they began the day’s work of digging the
precious ore inside the mountains, and melting it into ingots of gold
and silver.
How hungry poor Gerta grew as the day went on! Fortunately, she had in
her pocket a bit of bread and cheese left from last night’s supper; but
as night came on again and the fairy tables came up out of the floor at
a nod from the kobold king, it was all she could do not to snatch a bit
of the rich food they threw about, those more kind even tossing bits to
their little slave.
Hungry, and fearing discovery, in spite of the bat fur in her shoe,
Gerta sat all the evening behind the kobold king’s throne, plotting and
planning some way to put out the fire, as she could not take Hans away
with her, for he was not invisible, and a kobold lamp glowed in the cap
fitted on his head with a magic word, so that it would not come off,
however hard they pulled.
“I must have help, or I’ll never do it,” she said to herself as the
long, dark day dragged on. “I’ll go to Frau Bat and see what she can
say.”
So back went little Gerta, climbing up the long, slippery way from the
mine until she found Frau Bat asleep, hanging head downward in a most
alarming way. She was so vexed at being waked that she squeaked and
showed all her sharp little teeth, and only said crossly, “I told you
if the fires went out, they’d all fall asleep and never wake up.” Nor
would she say one word more, it mattered not how much Gerta begged.
Finally, in despair, she went farther up, to the cave’s mouth. Over the
door the white owl was perched, like Frau Bat, asleep. When she had
wakened him by standing on tiptoe and tweaking his tail feathers, he
said “Hoo--hoo” very loudly, and would have fallen asleep again, when
she cried, “O sir, how can we put out the kobolds’ fire?”
“Fire?” said he, sleepily. “Why water puts out fire. Any _dummkopf_
knows that, girl!”
And to sleep he went, and though she even dared throw some small
pebbles up at him, he never stirred or opened his eyes, until, in
despair, she went outside, almost blinded by the lovely evening
sunshine that flooded the crags with light and made every leaf and
berry as bright as a jewel in a queen’s diadem.
After some searching among the rocks, she found Herr Mole’s house,
where he, too, was curled asleep in his fine, black velvet cloak, with
her ring shining on his little black paw in fine style. He was sleepily
stupid, and all he could answer to her questioning as to how she was to
get water on to the kobolds’ fire was, “On top of the mountain there’s
a spring. Go away, child; if I lose my regular sleep, my cloak loses
its gloss.”
In vain Gerta begged him to tell her how a spring on top of the
mountain could help her put out the kobolds’ fires far underground; all
he would do was to yawn and keep murmuring, “I must get my sleep--I
must get my sleep.”
It was getting along toward evening, and Gerta could see the smoke
from her home curling up, a faint blue streak against the rosy sky.
She was hungry and discouraged; but she reasoned that if she went
home, they would not let her return, nor, indeed, believe any of her
queer adventures. So, not knowing what else to do, she climbed up on
the bergside, pausing now and then to eat the berries which jeweled
the bushes on every side. When she had climbed a long way, she heard a
great screeching and flapping of wings over her head, and looking up,
saw a great eagle flying about, uttering the most piercing cries. Then
she saw the trouble it was in. One of its young had fallen from the
nest, and its legs had caught under a stone that its fall dislodged.
And there it lay, almost at Gerta’s feet, its bright little eyes
glazing and its little beak only croaking feebly. Taking the stone in
both hands, Gerta dropped it over the cliff. She then lifted the young
bird in her apron, and, climbing up on a high ledge, laid it down,
where the old birds soon ministered to it; and after a while, Gerta saw
it rise and hop feebly about.
Then the eagle cried down to Gerta, in its high, harsh voice, “Thank
you, child. If you need help, call for the eagles, and you shall find
it near at hand by the time of a wing’s fanning.”
On climbed Gerta in the dying sunshine, determined at least to reach
the spring on top of the mountain, as the creatures seemed to think it
might aid her, though she had not the faintest gleam of an idea as to
how it could do so.
Coming around a sharp corner where stood a small, stout pine-tree, she
heard a faint, panting cry, and saw a little red squirrel lying limply
against a limb, faint and bleeding, while a large hawk pecked and
pierced him with his sharp beak till all poor squirrel’s fuzzy sides
were red.
Seizing a stone, Gerta threw it straight and true, and it landed on the
hawk’s back with such a bang that, hurt and frightened, he flew away,
screaming in disappointment.
“You have saved my life, child,” chattered the squirrel, “and should
you need help, call on the squirrel, and he will come.”
Thanking him, Gerta hurried on, and reached a large, dark spring almost
on top of the mountain just as the sun went down, and sat down beside
it, as the twilight fell, a lonely, tired little soul, almost at the
end of her endurance. So she added a few more drops of water to the
spring by weeping into it. But then the stars came out, so calm and
bright that they seemed to cheer her as she thought how changeless
they were. As she glanced back to earth, she saw a gleam from a nearby
crevice, and, looking nearer, saw to her wonder that she could look
right down into the kobolds’ cave, where the kobolds were about to wake
from their day’s rest, and were even now shoving and pushing little
Hans about.
“Water puts out fire,” said little Gerta, and clapped her hands at
the idea. If she could but turn the waters of the spring down upon the
kobolds’ fire! If a channel were made to turn the spring into the cave
all at once in one grand splash, out would go the fire, and little Hans
would be free!
“Now it’s time for the squirrels to help me,” said Gerta, and she
called, “Come, little fuzzy-tails, come and help little Gerta!”
Then from every side came a chattering, bright eyes flashed, plumy
tails waved. Strong, tiny claws scratched, scratched, at the loose dirt
and stones, and soon the waters of the great spring began to drip, to
run, and then--splash! They went down the crevice in the ceiling of
the kobolds’ cave, soaking the great brazier with its flaming coals,
flooding the cavern deeply all about; and each little brown kobold man
sat or lay asleep, just where he was, and little Hans fled quickly up
the steep, dark way to the cave’s mouth, free at last!
But now, alas! in the starry darkness Gerta stood alone on the
mountain, and the liberated spring had cut a deep chasm between her and
the road by which she had come. The round moon rode up the eastern sky
and peered kindly at her. She could hear little Hans’ shrill call of
“Gerta, O Gerta!” but she could not go to him.
“Oh, now I must have wings to descend, indeed,” cried little Gerta, and
clapping her hands she called, “Help from the great eagles!” And, sure
enough, black wings flashed between Gerta and the moon, and two great
eagles caught her by her stout little homespun gown, and down, down
they flew to the cave’s mouth, where the sister and brother were soon
clasped in each other’s arms.
“Now home,” said Gerta to little Hans. “And mother will certainly have
to give us a hot supper.”