behold! on the beach lay gasping a pike. "Alas! Tsarevich Ivan!"
sighed the pike, "have pity on me and cast me into the sea." And he
cast it into the sea, and went on along the shore.
The ball rolled a short way, and it rolled a long way, and at last it
came to a miserable hut; the hut was standing on hen's legs and
turning round and round. Ivan said to it: "Little hut, little hut!
stand the old way as thy mother placed thee, with thy front to me, and
thy back to the sea!" And the little hut turned round with its front
to him, and its back to the sea. The Tsarevich entered in, and saw the
bony-legged Baba-Yaga lying on the stove, on nine bricks and grinding
her teeth.
"Hillo! good youth, why dost thou visit me?" asked the Baba-Yaga.
"Fie, thou old hag! thou call'st me a good youth, but thou shouldst
first feed and give me drink, and prepare me a bath, then only
shouldst thou ask me questions."
The Baba-Yaga fed him and gave him to drink, and made ready a bath for
him, and the Tsarevich told her he was seeking his wife, Vasilisa.
"I know," said the Baba-Yaga; "she is now with Koshchei. 'Tis hard to
get thither, and it is not easy to settle accounts with Koshchei. His
death depends upon the point of a needle. That needle is in a hare,
that hare is in a coffer, that coffer is on the top of a high oak,
and Koshchei guards that tree as the apple of his eye."
The Baba-Yaga then showed him in what place that oak grew: Ivan went
thither, but did not know what to do to get at the coffer. Suddenly,
how who can tell, the bear rushed at the tree and tore it up by the
roots, the coffer fell and was smashed to pieces, the hare leaped out,
and with one bound had taken cover.
But look! the other hare bounded off in pursuit, hunted him down and
tore him to bits; out of the hare flew a duck and rose high, high in
the air, but the other duck dashed after her, and struck her down,
whereupon the duck laid an egg, and the egg fell into the sea.
Ivan, seeing the irreparable loss of the egg, burst into tears, when
suddenly the pike came swimming ashore, holding the egg between its
teeth. He took the egg, broke it, drew out the needle and broke off
its little point. Then he attacked Koshchei, who struggled hard, but
wriggle about as he might he had to die at last.
Then Ivan went into the house of Koshchei, took Vasilisa, and returned
home. After that they lived together for a long, long time, and were
very, very happy.
_Oeyvind and Marit_[20]
BJOeRNE BJOeRNESON
Oeyvind was his name. A low, barren cliff overhung the house in which
he was born; fir and birch looked down on the roof, and wild cherry
strewed flowers over it. Upon this roof there walked about a little
goat, which belonged to Oeyvind. He was kept there that he might not
go astray; and Oeyvind carried leaves and grass up to him. One fine
day the goat leaped down, and away to the cliff; he went straight up,
and came where he never had been before.
[Footnote 20: From _A Happy Boy_ in J. G. Whittier's _Child Life in
Prose_.]
Oeyvind did not see him when he came out after dinner, and thought
immediately of the fox. He grew hot all over, looked round about, and
called, "Killy-killy-killy-goat!"
"_Bay-ay-ay_," said the goat, from the brow of the hill, as he cocked
his head on one side and looked down.
But beside the goat there kneeled a little girl. "Is it yours--this
goat?" she asked.
Oeyvind stood with eyes and mouth wide open, thrust both hands into
the breeches he had on, and asked, "Who are you?"
"I am Marit, mother's little one, father's fiddle, the elf in the
house, granddaughter of Ole Nordistuen of the Heide farms, four years
old in the autumn, two days after the frost nights, I!"
"Are you really?" he said, and drew a long breath, which he had not
dared to do so long as she was speaking.
"Is it yours, this goat?" asked the girl again.
"Ye-es," he said, and looked up.
"I have taken such a fancy to the goat. You will not give it to me?"
"No, that I won't."
She lay kicking her legs, and looking down at him, and then she said,
"But if I give you a butter-cake for the goat, can I have him then?"
Oeyvind came of poor people, and had eaten butter-cake only once in
his life; that was when grandpa came there, and anything like it he
had never eaten before or since. He looked up at the girl. "Let me see
the butter-cake first," said he.
She was not long about it, and took out a large cake, which she held
in her hand. "Here it is," she said, and threw it down.
"Ow, it went to pieces," said the boy. He gathered up every bit with
the utmost care; he could not help tasting the very smallest, and
that was so good he had to taste another, and, before he knew it
himself, he had eaten up the whole cake.
"Now the goat is mine," said the girl.
The boy stopped with the last bit in his mouth, the girl lay and
laughed, and the goat stood by her side, with white breast and dark
brown hair, looking sideways down.
"Could you not wait a little while?" begged the boy; his heart began
to beat. Then the girl laughed still more, and got up quickly on her
knees.
"No, the goat is mine," she said, and threw her arms round its neck,
loosened one of her garters, and fastened it round. Oeyvind looked up.
She got up, and began pulling at the goat. It would not follow, but
twisted its neck downward to where Oeyvind stood.
"_Bay-ay-ay_," it said.
But she took hold of its hair with one hand, pulled the string with
the other, and said gently, "Come, goat, and you shall go into the
room and eat out of mother's dish and my apron." And then she sang:
"Come, boy's goat,
Come, mother's calf,
Come, mewing cat
In snow-white shoes.
Come, yellow ducks,
Come out of your hiding-place;
Come, little chickens,
Who can hardly go;
Come, my doves
With soft feathers;
See, the grass is wet,
But the sun does you good;
And early, early is it in summer,
But call for the autumn, and it will come."
There stood the boy.
He had taken care of the goat since the winter before, when it was
born, and he had never imagined he could lose it; but now it was done
in a moment, and he would never see it again.
* * * * *
His mother came up humming from the beach, with wooden pans which she
had scoured; she saw the boy sitting with his legs crossed under him
on the grass, crying, and she went up to him.
"What are you crying about?"
"Oh, the goat, the goat!"
"Yes; where is the goat?" asked his mother, looking up at the roof.
"It will never come back again," said the boy.
"Dear me! How could that happen?"
He would not confess immediately.
"Has the fox taken it?"
"Ah, if it only were the fox!"
"Are you mad?" said his mother. "What has become of the goat?"
"Oh-h-h, I happened to--to--to sell it for a cake!"
As soon as he had uttered the word, he understood what it was to sell
the goat for a cake; he had not thought of it before. His mother said:
"What do you suppose the little goat thinks of you, when you could
sell him for a cake?"
And the boy thought about it, and felt sure that he could never again
be happy in this world, and not even in heaven, he thought,
afterwards. He felt so sorry, that he promised himself never again to
do anything wrong, never to cut the thread on the spinning wheel, nor
let the goats out, nor go down to the sea alone. He fell asleep where
he lay, and dreamed about the goat, that he had gone to heaven; our
Lord sat there with a great beard, as in the catechism, and the goat
stood eating the leaves off a shining tree; but Oeyvind sat alone on
the roof, and could not come up.
Suddenly there came something wet close up to his ear, and he started
up. "_Bay-ay-ay!_" it said; and it was the goat, who had come back
again.
"What! have you got back?"
He got up, took it by the two forelegs, and danced with it as if it
were a brother; he pulled its beard, and he was just going in to his
mother with it, when he heard someone behind him, and, looking, saw
the girl sitting on the greensward by his side. Now he understood it
all, and let go the goat.
"Is it you who have come with it?"
She sat tearing the grass up with her hands, and said:
"They would not let me keep it; grandfather is sitting up there,
waiting."
While the boy stood looking at her, he heard a sharp voice from the
road above call out, "Now!"
Then she remembered what she was to do; she rose, went over to
Oeyvind, put one of her muddy hands into his, and, turning her face
away, said:
"I beg your pardon!"
But then her courage was all gone; she threw herself over the goat,
and wept.
"I think you had better keep the goat," said Oeyvind, looking the
other way.
"Come, make haste!" said grandpapa, up on the hill; and Marit rose,
and walked with reluctant feet upwards.
"You are not forgetting your garter?" Oeyvind cried after her. She
turned around, and looked first at the garter and then at him. At last
she came to a great resolution, and said, in a choked voice:
"You may keep that."
He went over to her, and, taking her hand, said:
"Thank you!"
"Oh, nothing to thank for!" she answered, but drew a long sigh, and
walked on.
He sat down on the grass again. The goat walked about near him, but he
was no longer so pleased with it as before.
* * * * *
The goat was fastened to the wall; but Oeyvind walked about, looking
up at the cliff. His mother came out and sat down by his side; he
wanted to hear stories about what was far away, for now the goat no
longer satisfied him. So she told him how once everything could talk:
the mountain talked to the stream, and the stream to the river, the
river to the sea, and the sea to the sky; but then he asked if the sky
did not talk to any one; and the sky talked to the clouds, the clouds
to the trees, the trees to the grass, the grass to the flies, the
flies to the animals, the animals to the children, the children to the
grown-up people; and so it went on, until it had gone round, and no
one could tell where it had begun.
Oeyvind looked at the mountain, the trees, the sky, and had never
really seen them before. The cat came out at that moment, and lay down
on the stone before the door in the sunshine.
"What does the cat say?" asked Oeyvind, pointing. His mother sang:
"'At evening softly shines the sun,
The cat lies lazy on the stone.
Two small mice,
Cream, thick, and nice,
Four bits of fish,
I stole behind a dish,
And am so lazy and tired,
Because so well I have fared,'
says the cat."
But then came the cock, with all the hens. "What does the cock say?"
asked Oeyvind, clapping his hands together. His mother sang:
"'The mother hen her wings doth sink,
The cock stands on one leg to think:
That grey goose
Steers high her course;
But sure am I that never she
As clever as a cock can be.
Run in, you hens, keep under the roof to-day,
For the sun has got leave to stay away,'
says the cock."
But the little birds were sitting on the ridgepole, singing. "What do
the birds say?" asked Oeyvind, laughing.
"'Dear Lord, how pleasant is life,
For those who have neither toil nor strife,'
say the birds."
And she told him what they all said, down to the ant who crawled in
the moss, and the worm who worked in the bark.
* * * * *
That same summer, one day, his mother came in and said to him,
"To-morrow school begins and then you are going there with me."
Oeyvind had heard that school was a place where many children played
together, and he had no objection. Indeed, he was much pleased, and he
was so anxious to get there that he walked faster than his mother up
over the hills.
When he came in there sat as many children around a table as he had
ever seen at church. Others were sitting around the walls. They all
looked up as Oeyvind and his mother entered, and as he was going to
find a seat they all wanted to make room for him. He looked around a
long time with his cap in his hand, and just as he was going to sit
down he saw close beside him, sitting by the hearth-stone, Marit of
the many names. She had covered her face with both hands, and sat
peeping at him through her fingers.
"I shall sit here," said Oeyvind quickly, seating himself at her side,
and then she laughed and he laughed too.
"Is it always like this here?" he whispered to Marit.
"Yes, just like this; I have a goat now," she said.
"Have you?"
"Yes; but it is not so pretty as yours."
"Why don't you come oftener up on the cliff?" said he.
"Grandpapa is afraid I shall fall over."
"But it is not so very high."
"Grandpapa won't let me, for all that."
"Mother knows so many songs," said he.
"Grandpapa does too, you can believe."
"Yes, but he does not know what mother does."
"Grandpapa knows one about a dance. Would you like to hear it?"
"Yes, very much."
"Well, then, you must come farther over here, and I will tell it to
you."
He changed his place, and then she recited a little piece of a song
three or four times over so that the little boy learned it, and that
was the first he learned at school.
Then the children sang, and Oeyvind stood with Marit by the door. All
the children stood with folded hands and sang. Oeyvind and Marit also
folded their hands, but they could not sing. And that was the first
day at school.
_The Emperor's New Clothes_
There once lived an Emperor who was so fond of fine clothes that he
spent great sums of money in order to be beautifully dressed. He cared
little about his army or other affairs of State; he did not care for
amusements; nothing pleased him so much as walking abroad to show off
his new clothes. He had a coat for every hour of the day; and as they
often say of a king, "He is in the council chamber," here it would
usually be, "The Emperor is at his toilet."
The great city in which he lived had always something fresh to show;
every day many strangers came there. One day two men arrived who said
that they were weavers, and knew how to manufacture the most beautiful
cloth imaginable. Not only were the material and texture uncommonly
beautiful, but clothes made of the stuff possessed this wonderful
property that they were invisible to anyone who was not fit for his
office, or who was very stupid.
"Those must indeed be splendid clothes," thought the Emperor.
"Besides, if I had an outfit, I could find out which of my servants
are unfit for the offices they hold; I should know the wise from the
stupid! Yes, this cloth must be woven for me." And he gave the men
much money that they might begin at once to weave their cloth.
Of course they were impostors, but they put together two looms, and
began to move about as if they were working, though they had nothing
whatever on the looms. They were also given quantities of the finest
silk and the best gold, which they hid.
"I wonder how far they have got on with the cloth," thought the
Emperor one day. He remembered that whoever was stupid or not fit for
his office would be unable to see the material. He certainly believed
that he had nothing to fear for himself, but he decided first to send
a high official in order to see how he stood the test. Everybody in
the whole town knew by this time what a wonderful power the cloth had,
and all were curious to see what was to happen.
"I will send my prime minister to the weavers," thought the Emperor.
"He can judge best what the cloth is like, for he is the wisest man in
my kingdom."
Accordingly the old minister went to the hall where the impostors sat
working at the empty looms. "Dear me!" thought the old man, opening
his eyes wide, "I cannot see any cloth!" But he did not say so. "Dear,
dear!" thought he, "can I be stupid? Can I be not fit for my office?
No, I must certainly not admit that I cannot see the cloth!"
"Have you nothing to say?" asked one of the men.
"Oh, it is lovely, most lovely!" answered the old minister, looking
through his spectacles. "What smooth texture! What glowing colours!
Yes, I will tell the Emperor that it is certainly very fine."
"We are delighted to hear you say that," said both the weavers, and
they proceeded to name the colours and describe the appearance of the
texture.
The old minister listened with great attention, so that he could tell
the Emperor all about it on his return.
The impostors now demanded more money, and more silk and gold to use
in their weaving. They pocketed all, and went on as they had done
before, working at the empty loom. The Emperor soon sent another
official to report as to when the cloth would be finished. The
minister looked and looked, but there was nothing on the empty loom
and of course he could see nothing.
"Is it not a beautiful piece of cloth?" asked the impostors, and they
appeared to display material which was not there.
"Stupid I am not!" thought the minister, "so it must be that I am not
fitted for my office. It is strange certainly, but no one must be
allowed to notice it." And he, too, praised the cloth and pretended
delight at the beautiful colours and the splendid texture. "Yes, it is
indeed beautiful," he reported to the Emperor.
Everybody in the town was talking of the magnificent cloth, and the
Emperor decided to see it himself while it was still on the loom. With
a great crowd of courtiers, among whom were both the ministers who had
been there before, he went to the impostors, who were making believe
to weave with all their might.
"Is it not splendid!" said both the old statesmen. "See, your Majesty,
how fine is the texture! What remarkable colours!" And then they
pointed to the empty loom, believing that all but themselves could see
the cloth quite well.
"What is wrong?" thought the Emperor. "I can certainly see nothing!
This is indeed horrible! I must be stupid, or unfit to be Emperor! It
will never do to let it be known! Yes, it is indeed very beautiful,"
he said. "It has my entire approval."
And then he nodded pleasantly, and examined the empty loom with an
appearance of interest, for he would not admit that he could see
nothing.
His courtiers, too, looked and looked, and saw no more than the
others; but they said like the Emperor, "Oh! it is beautiful!"
Everyone seemed so delighted that the Emperor gave to the impostors
the title of Weavers to the Emperor.
Now there was to be a State procession the following week and
throughout the night before and the morning of the day on which this
was to take place the impostors were working by the light of many
candles. The people could see that they appeared to be busy putting
the finishing touches to the Emperor's new clothes. They pretended
that they were taking the cloth from the loom; they cut nothing with
huge scissors, sewed with needles without thread, and at last said,
"The clothes are finished!"
The Emperor came himself with his favourites and each impostor held up
his arms as if he were showing something and said, "See! here are the
breeches! Here is the coat! Here the cloak!" and so on.
"Our clothes are so comfortable that one might imagine one had nothing
on; that is the beauty of them!"
"Yes," nodded the courtiers, although they could see nothing, there
being nothing there.
"Will it please your Majesty graciously to disrobe," said the
impostors.
The Emperor took off all his clothes, and the men busied themselves as
if they were putting on various garments, while meantime the Emperor
surveyed himself in the mirror.
"How beautifully they fit! How well they suit his Majesty!" said
everybody.
"If it please your Majesty, the procession is ready," announced the
Master of the Ceremonies.
"I am ready," said the Emperor. And he turned again to the mirror as
if to take a last admiring view of his finery.
The courtiers whose duty it was to bear the Emperor's train put their
hands near the floor as if to lift the train; then they acted as if
they were holding it up. They would not have it known that they could
see nothing.
So the Emperor strutted forward in the procession under a splendid
canopy, and the people in the streets and at the windows said, "How
grand are the Emperor's new clothes! What beautiful silk, how it
shines!"
No one would admit that he could see nothing, for that would have
proved him unfit for his office, or stupid. None of the Emperor's
clothes had ever been so praised.
"But the Emperor has nothing on!" said a child at last.
"Listen to the innocent child!" said the father, and each one
whispered to his neighbour what the child had said.
"The Emperor has nothing on!" the people began to call out at last.
This seemed to the Emperor to be true; but he thought to himself, "I
must not stop now." And the courtiers walked behind him with pompous
air, gravely holding up the train which was not there.
_Rhoecus_[21]
FANNY E. COE
Long ago there lived a Grecian youth named Rhoecus. Just outside the
city where Rhoecus dwelt was a wood. This wood was very old. Some
said there were oaks in the forest that had been growing for a
thousand years.
[Footnote 21: Based upon the story of James Russell Lowell's poem of
the same name.]
One day Rhoecus was passing through the wood. Before him he saw a
noble oak about to fall. He ran and propped its mossy trunk with great
branches that he took from the ground.
As he was turning away, he heard a soft voice say, "Rhoecus." There
beside the tree stood a beautiful dryad.
"I am the spirit of this tree," she said. "As long as it lives, I
live. When it falls, I die. You, Rhoecus, have just saved my life.
Ask what you will and it is yours."
Rhoecus gazed at the dryad with wonder and awe. "You are the fairest
being I have ever seen. Give me your love," he cried.
"You shall have it, Rhoecus," replied the dryad sadly. "Meet me
here an hour before the sunset."
With a happy heart and a gay step Rhoecus went on his way to the
town. He had won a most beautiful bride. To celebrate his joy, he
thought he would play a game of dice with his friends.
The game took all his thought, for he was most unlucky. He lost once,
twice, and even a third time. He forgot all about the dryad. The sun
sank lower and lower and still he played on.
At last a bee entered the window and brushed against his forehead.
Rhoecus shook it off. Again and again the bee returned. At last
Rhoecus, in anger, struck the little creature and wounded it. Away
flew the bee and Rhoecus, looking after it, saw the red sun setting
over the trees of the thousand-year-old forest. He was too late!
Through the city and out of its gates he rushed. He sped across the
plain and entered the wood. At the tree no fair dryad awaited him. But
he heard a voice saying sadly, "Ah, Rhoecus, you forgot your promise
to me. You drove away with a cruel blow my little messenger who sought
to remind you of me. Because you have been harsh to the little bee,
your punishment is this: You shall never see me again."
"Ah, no! sweet spirit," cried Rhoecus. "Forgive me this once. I will
never sin again."
"Alas! it cannot be. Farewell," sighed the dryad. And Rhoecus saw
her no more.
In that hour he changed from a happy youth to a sad and lonely man.
All his life he longed to see the dryad whom he had lost for ever.
_King Solomon and the Ants_
FLORA J. COOKE
One morning the Queen of Sheba started back to her home in the South.
King Solomon and all his court went with her to the gates of the city.
It was a glorious sight. The King and Queen rode upon white horses.
The purple and scarlet coverings of their followers glittered with
silver and gold.
The King looked down and saw an ant hill in the path before them.
"See yonder little people," he said; "do you hear what they are saying
as they run about so wildly?
"They say, 'Here comes the King men call wise, and good, and great. He
will trample us under his cruel feet.'"
"They should be proud to die under the feet of such a King," said the
Queen. "How dare they complain!"
"Not so, great Queen," replied the King.
He turned his horse aside and all his followers did the same.
When the great company had passed, there was the ant hill unharmed in
the path.
The Queen said, "Happy, indeed, must be your people, wise King. I
shall remember the lesson. He only is noble and great who cares for
the helpless and weak."
_The Story of Pegasus_
FANNY E. COE
Long ago in Greece there lived a young man named Bellerophon.
Bellerophon was brave; he was handsome; he was kind-hearted.
Nearly everyone loved Bellerophon; but there was one man who did not
like him. This was the King of the country in which Bellerophon lived.
The King was jealous. He saw how everyone, rich and poor, high and
low, loved Bellerophon. He feared that they might want to have
Bellerophon for their King. So he thought, "I must send this young man
away."
He wrote letters to his wife's father, the King of Lycia. These
letters he sent by Bellerophon.
The King of Lycia welcomed Bellerophon to his court. For nine days
there was feasting, and Bellerophon won everyone's heart by his wit
and grace.