SNOW-WHITE;
OR, THE HOUSE IN THE WOOD
BY LAURA E. RICHARDS
AUTHOR OF "CAPTAIN JANUARY," "MELODY," "THREE
MARGARETS," "QUEEN HILDEGARDE," ETC.
BOSTON
DANA ESTES & COMPANY
PUBLISHERS
_Copyright, 1900_
BY DANA ESTES & COMPANY
Colonial Press:
Electrotyped and Printed by C. H. Simonds & Co.
Boston, Mass., U.S.A.
TO
E. A. R.
WITH AFFECTIONATE GREETING
CONTENTS.
CHAP. PAGE
I. THE HOUSE 1
II. THE CHILD 7
III. THE MAN 17
IV. ASKING QUESTIONS 26
V. PHILLIPS; AND A STORY 38
VI. MILKING THE COW 50
VII. THE STORY 60
VIII. THE KEY OF THE FIELDS 72
IX. RESTORED TO LIFE 83
X. GOOD-BYE 90
SNOW-WHITE;
OR, THE HOUSE IN THE WOOD.
CHAPTER I.
THE HOUSE.
The house was so well hidden, one might almost stumble against it
before one became aware of it. All round the woods stood tall and
dense, old woods of pine and hemlock, with here and there great smooth,
squat beeches, and ragged, glistening yellow birches. For the most
part they jostled one another so close that one almost fancied they
must be uncomfortable; but in one spot they fell away from a steep,
rocky bank or ledge, drawing back and standing in a circle at some
little distance, leaving an open space of sunny green, at the foot of
the rock. It was on this open space that the house looked; and as the
house was built of stone, and leaned up against the ledge behind it,
one could hardly tell where man's hand had begun, or where left off.
The stones might almost have been flung together by a boy at play; yet,
rough as they were, they fitted close, and kept the weather out. The
roof was of bark; the whole thing was half-covered with creepers that
made their way down in a leisurely fashion from the ledge above, not
too inquisitive, but still liking to know what was going on. To this
end they looked in at the windows, which stood open all summer long,
and saw many things which must have surprised them. The squirrels went
in boldly, several times a day; so did the birds, the braver of them;
and all came out looking pleased with themselves and with things in
general. So there was necessarily something or somebody pleasant inside
the house.
I said that the trees stood well back from the house in the wood. I
ought to have excepted three, a stately pine, and two glorious yellow
birches, which stood close to it, as close as might be. In fact,
part of the hut seemed to be built round the bole of the pine, which
disappeared for several feet, as if the stones had clasped it in a
rough embrace, and refused to let go their hold. The birches were a few
feet from the door, but near enough for one to lean out of window and
pull off the satin fringes. Their roots swelled out above the ground,
and twisted themselves into curves that might make a delightful seat,
under the green bending canopy, through whose waving folds the trunk
glistened like a giant prince of rags and tatters. In the centre of the
tiny glade stood a buttonwood-tree, whose vast girth seemed curiously
out of proportion to its surroundings. The pine and the birches were
noble trees; all the forest round was full of towering stems and
knotted, powerful branches; but beside the great buttonwood, they
seemed like sturdy dwarfs. If there had been any one to measure the
trunk, he would have found a girth of twenty-five feet or more, near
the base; while above the surrounding forest, it towered a hundred
feet and more in air. At a height of twelve or fifteen feet appeared
an opening, two or three feet in diameter. A hollow? surely! not so
large as that in the Lycian plane-tree, where Licinius Mucianus dined
with nineteen companions,--yes, and slept too, and enjoyed himself
immensely,--but large enough to hold two or three persons with all
comfort, if not convenience. As for the number of squirrels it might
hold, that was past counting; they were running in and out all day
long, and made such a noise that they disturbed the woodpeckers, and
made them irritable on a hot day.
There never was such a wood for birds! Partly from its great age,
partly from favourable accidents of soil and aspect, it had accumulated
an unusual variety of trees; and any bird, looking about for a good
building site, was sure of finding just the particular tree he liked
best, with building materials, food, and every other requisite to
heart's desire. So the trees rustled and quivered with wings, and rang
with song, all day long, except in the hot sleepy noons, when most
respectable birds keep within nests, and only the woodthrush from time
to time sends out his few perfect notes, to show that all times are
alike to the true singer. Not content with the forest itself, some
families--I think they were ruby-crowned wrens and bluebirds--had
made their nests in the creepers that matted the roof of the hut with
green; and the great buttonwood was a positive metropolis, densely
populated with titmice, warblers, and flycatchers of every description.
If anybody lived in the stone hut, he would not want for company, what
with the birds and the squirrels, and the woodchucks that came and
went across the little green as unconcernedly as if it were their own
front dooryard. Decidedly, the inhabitant, if there were one, must be
of kin to the wildwood creatures, for his dwelling and its surroundings
evidently belonged as much to the forest people as to him.
On the day when my story begins, the house in the wood was the only
lifeless thing, or so it seemed, in the whole joyous little scene. It
was a day in early May, and the world was so delighted with itself that
it laughed and twinkled all over. The trees were hardly yet in full
leaf, but had the gray-green misty look of spring, that makes one see
Erl-K├Ânig's daughters shimmering in every willow, and rustling out of
sight behind the white birch-trunks. The great buttonwood had put out
its leaves, covered with thick white down; the air was full of sweet
smells, for it had rained in the night, and wet leaves, pine needles,
new ferns, and a hundred other lovely awakening things, made the air
a life-giving ether. The little green was starred with anemones and
eyebrights; under the cool of the trees one might see other things
glimmering, exquisite shadowy forms,--hepaticas, were they, or fairies
in purple and gray fur? One felt the presence of mayflowers, though
one could not see them unless one went close and pulled away the brown
dry leaves; then the lovely rosy creatures would peep out and laugh,
as only mayflowers can when they play at hide and seek. There seemed
to be a robin party going on under the buttonwood-tree. A dozen of
them or more were running and hopping and strutting about, with their
breasts well forward, doing amazing things in the matter of worms. Yes,
it must surely have rained in the night, or there could not have been
such a worm-harvest. There seemed almost to be enough for the robins,
and any one who knows robins is aware that this is an extravagant
statement. The titmice had apparently not been invited; they sat in
the branches and looked on, or hopped and ran about their green leafy
city. There was no need for them to travel all that distance to the
ground; besides, they considered worms vulgar and coarse food. A
self-respecting titmouse, who provides over two hundred grubs a day
for himself and his family, may well be content to live in his own
city, the murmuring, rustling place where grubs lie close on the bough
and under the bark, and where flies are ready for the bill; he has no
need to pierce the friendly earth, and drag up her unsightly creeping
things, to swallow piecemeal. A titmouse has his opinion of robins,
though he is on intimate terms with most birds in the forest.
Now and then some sudden wave of instinct or purpose would run through
all the great army of birds,--those in the buttonwood city, the robins
struggling on the green, and far in the dim forest depths thrush and
song-sparrow and warbler. First a stray note here and there, setting
the pitch, it might be; then, fuller and fuller, a chorus, rising high
and higher, fluting, trilling, whistling, singing away like mad, every
little ruffled throat of them all. Praise, was it, or profession of
belief, or simply of joy of being alive and able to sing under green
leaves and summer sun?
But even these outbursts of rapture did not rouse the house in the
wood. It lay there in the morning glory, gray, silent, senseless,
crouched against the wall of rock behind it.