Produced by Al Haines
[Frontispiece: Jack and Jill in the Witch's House.]
MORE TALES
IN THE LAND OF
NURSERY RHYME
BY
ADA M. MARZIALS
AUTHOR OF
"IN THE LAND OF NURSERY RHYME"
WITH FRONTISPIECE
LONDON: H. R. ALLENSON, LIMITED
RACQUET COURT, FLEET STREET, E.C.
1913
TO
MY LITTLE COUSINS
KATHLEEN AND DOROTHY
CONTENTS
THE NORTH WIND DOTH BLOW
MARY, MARY, QUITE CONTRARY
JACK AND JILL
LITTLE MISS MUFFET
PUSSY CAT, PUSSY CAT
HEY, DIDDLE, DIDDLE!
THE NORTH WIND DOTH BLOW
"_Different people have different opinions_"
The North Wind doth blow,
And we shall have snow,
And what will the robin do then? Poor thing!
He will sit in a barn,
And to keep himself warm
He will hide his head under his wing. Poor thing!
Oh, how cold it was!
The North Wind howled round the barn, whirling the snowflakes into a
little heap inside the half-open door. Even beyond the little heap of
snow, right inside the barn among the whisps of hay and straw, and beyond
the pile of turnips piled up in one far corner, it was still bitterly
cold and draughty.
The few birds left had found their way into the old barn for shelter, and
were close together on a low bar of wood at the far end, where they sat
ruffling their feathers and shivering.
From time to time one of them would peer out at the leaden grey sky and
the falling snowflakes, and then hide its head under its wing again to
deaden the sound of the wind whistling through the crannies.
There were five of them.
A Robin, who had been blown in with the last gust of wind; a wretched
little Sparrow, who twittered helplessly from time to time, and then hid
her head ashamed at having been betrayed into such an exhibition of
weakness in public; an Owl, who, living habitually in the barn, regarded
the others with suspicion as intruders, and possibly thieves; and,
lastly, two queer Japanese birds, who had lived all the summer on the
ornamental lake in the garden.
These latter had been brought to the barn during the bad weather, as they
were considered too delicate to bear the stress of a really cold English
winter, and were looked down on and despised by the other birds as
foreigners. They were very shy, and crouched side by side in one corner,
never venturing a remark unless first spoken to. The Robin, though he
was the latest comer, had, by reason of his cheery good-nature, and a
certain perky self-confidence, already gained for himself a position as
leader among the other birds. Even the old Owl blinked and winked
occasionally at his jokes, and the Sparrow was soon reduced to a helpless
state of twittering giggles. But laughing will not keep you warm, and at
last even the Robin was forced to confess that he had never been colder
in his life; and what was the use of thinking of all the plum-puddings
and mince pies and bread crumbs and holly-berries in the world, when you
were feeling as though you had not a feather on your body to bless
yourself with!
"I wish I could make the snow stop somehow," he said. "It is all very
well for Mother Goose to go on plucking out feathers up there, but she
does not help to make _us_ any warmer."
"Pooh!" said the Owl, who had lately condescended to join in the
conversation. "Who told you all that rubbish about Mother Goose? Why,
the snow has no more to do with Mother Goose than I have! . . . Mother
Goose, indeed!" and she blinked twice, just to show that she could tell
more if she chose.
"Bird of Wisdom," piped the Robin, with a wink at the Sparrow, which set
her off giggling worse than ever, "enlighten us, I pray you, as to the
true cause of snow?"
"Yes, do," said the Sparrow, when she had recovered her breath. The
Japanese birds said nothing, but stirred uneasily.
"Snow," began the Owl, sententiously, "is connected with rain and
frost----"
"Pip! Pip!" rudely interrupted the Robin. "If you are going to talk
science, madam, I must beg to be excused," and he promptly hid his head
under his wing, and the Sparrow followed suit.
The Owl paid no heed to this interruption, but lectured on, and having
talked for about ten minutes or so with no applause, withdrew to a
further corner of the barn and fell asleep.
When she had gone, the Japanese birds began murmuring softly to each
other. The Robin brought his head from under his wing with a start.
"What's that you said?" he inquired.
"In our country," began the elder Japanese bird, with a slightly foreign
accent, but in otherwise perfect English, "we look on snowflakes as the
whirling mantles of the dancing moon maidens; and when the trees and
mountain-peaks are seen covered with snow in the morning, we say the moon
maidens have left their mantles hanging up or spread out to dry."
"Charming idea, and most romantic," piped the Robin. "I am not romantic
myself, and I must say that the Mother Goose idea strongly appeals to my
practical nature. Still, there may be something in what you say."
"An absolutely too sweet notion. Fancy a foreigner thinking of it,"
chirped the Sparrow.
"Have you ever seen a Moon Maiden?" continued the Robin, without heeding
the Sparrow's rude interruption.
"No, they are invisible now," said the Japanese bird; "but my
great-grandfather told my father a story about one of them once. We
always tell it to each other in snow time. It keeps us warm and makes us
think of home."
The other Japanese bird piped a few sad notes, which, as the Robin said,
"stirred his nature to the very depths!"
"Would it be asking too much for you to tell us the story too?" he said.
"I hope it is something cheerful, though; the roast beef and plum-pudding
type of story is what appeals to me."
"Hoots!" said the Owl, waking from her little nap. "_I_ like melodrama.
I hope there is a villain in it, and a churchyard or two."
"And _I_ hope there is a strong domestic interest," said the Sparrow,
with a feeble giggle.
"Anyway, please tell us," said the Robin. "I am absolutely freezing and
must have something to distract my thoughts--ri tol de rol!"
The elder Japanese bird rustled his feathers softly for a minute or two,
and then, with his eyes fixed on the grey sky and driving snow, and
interrupted from time to time by the howling of the wind, he began:
You must know that our country, like this, is surrounded by the blue sea;
and that the sandy shores are fringed with pine trees, and that behind
the pine trees rise the hills and mountains. Yea, and behind all these
lies the one most beautiful mountain in the world, our Fuji, to look on
whom is the greatest privilege that can be given to bird or man.
You must know, also, that across the blue sea, for those who can find it,
is the direct path to the country of the moon. There dwell the moon
maidens, creatures so lovely that it is beyond me to describe them. They
are dressed in white glistening mantles, and spend their lives dancing
and singing to the stars. On great occasions, such as birthdays, they
are allowed to visit our country, some even to gaze on the all-glorious
Fuji. But though they swim across the sea, and often spread out their
mantles to dry when they reach the hills, yet must they always be sure to
put their mantles on again before they leave our shores, or they will
fade and vanish into nothingness, and never again reach the moon where is
their home.
There was once a Moon Maiden who was fairer to look upon than all the
others, and danced more divinely than any of them. Her name was Tsuki,
the Daughter of the Moon. To her, too, was it granted on her birthday to
visit our country, and to gaze on the all-glorious Fuji.
Wrapping her feather mantle round her, she swam down the path which leads
from the moon across the blue sea to our shores.
When she arrived on the sands among the pine trees, she searched about
for some spot where she might hang her feather mantle to dry, while she
climbed a neighbouring hill to gaze on the all-glorious Fuji. She saw
one pine tree taller than the others, with a flat surface of branches at
the top, and taking her glistening, dripping mantle with her, she flew to
the topmost branch. There she spread out her mantle and left it to dry.
She then fled away to the neighbouring peak, which, climbing, she beheld
Fuji, bathed in moonlight, and realised that even in her own moon-land
she had never seen anything so beautiful.
While she was gazing in wonder at our pearl of mountains, a poor
fisherman who lived in a cottage close to the sea came out to tend his
nets.
His name was Yama, and he lived alone. My great-grandfather's nest was
close to his cottage, and Yama loved my great-grandfather and often spoke
to him of his dreams.
On this night when Tsuki came to earth, Yama, tempted by the glory of the
sea and stars, did not go into his cottage again, but wandered aimlessly
along the shore thinking of his lonely life, and dreaming of the moon.
Unconsciously he raised his eyes to the tops of the pine trees that
fringed the sandy shore, and his attention was caught by something white
and glistening on the top of one of them.
"Is that some dead white bird lying yonder?" he thought. "'Tis too late,
surely, for snow."
He walked to the foot of the tree and climbed it branch by branch. When
he reached the top, he saw that what he had taken to be a bird, was
indeed a mass of finest feathers, but shaped like a woman's cloak.
He took it in his arms--it was as light as driven snow--and climbed down
the tree on to the seashore.
"How beautiful!" he said. "I will hang it up in my cottage; surely it is
some fairy thing, and will bring me good luck and a fulfilment of my
dreams." He was about to walk away with the mantle in his arms, when he
heard a cry behind him.
He turned, and saw a beautiful maiden wringing her hands and crying
bitterly. She was pale and slim, and her light golden hair flowed to her
feet, but she had no mantle, and she trembled exceedingly.
It was Tsuki, the Moon Maiden.
She, knowing that the night was far spent, had said farewell to Fuji,
descended the mountain, and come back to fetch her mantle that she might
return homewards. But when she had reached the pine tree, she had seen
that her mantle had disappeared. With tears in her eyes she had run to
the shore to gaze sadly on the path which led across the sea to her
home--the path that without her mantle she could not tread. Then she had
seen Yama, and not knowing who or what he was, had run to him for help.
When he turned at her cry, she saw that he had her mantle in his arms.
They stood gazing at each other in silence for a few minutes. Then:
"Give me back my mantle," she said in a trembling voice.
At first Yama could answer nothing; but he held the mantle closer, and
then said at last:
"Oh, most beautiful maiden, let me keep your mantle in token that you
will stay here always. Willingly would I serve you all the days of my
life, and yonder is my little cottage where we could live and be happy
for ever."
But she shook her head.
"I am Tsuki, the Moon Maiden," she said. "If I were to enter a human
dwelling I should die. By daylight, even, I cannot live in your country.
Give me back my mantle that I may return to my home in the moon. The
minutes are passing. When the moon wanes, if I have not my mantle, I
shall die and disappear utterly. Then shall I never see my home again,
nor the moon maidens my sisters, nor shall I ever dance nor sing again to
the stars. Oh, for mercy's sake, I pray you give me back my mantle!"
But Yama answered nothing and held the mantle closer. Then Tsuki began
to think what she could do or give him in exchange for what she held so
dear.
"See!" she cried suddenly. "If it is a mantle you want, if you will give
mine back to me now, then when the winter comes I will return with my
sisters, and we will leave a bundle of our old cloaks on the hill-tops
for you to find and carry home with you. Indeed, I promise truly that
you shall have many of our cloaks in the winter time."
But Yama still answered nothing, and held the mantle closer.
Then Tsuki cried again: "The moon is waning fast, oh give me back my
mantle, and before I go I will dance for you as I would dance for the
Morning Star."
When Yama saw how earnestly she besought him, and that no entreaties of
his could persuade her to stay with him, he cast down the cloak before
her.
"Take it," he said, "but keep your promise, and dance for me as you would
dance for the Morning Star."
So Tsuki flung the soft, white, glistening, mantle round her, and on the
sandy shore beneath the pine trees, by the light of the waning moon, she
began to dance.
So light was she that she looked like a blown feather of foam as she
skimmed and flitted and swayed on the glistening sand, with her pale gold
hair glimmering, and her white feet twinkling in the dim light. Once or
twice she fell to the ground in a crumpled heap as if exhausted, but each
time, as though a puff of wind had caught her up, she rose again
fluttering and swiftly turning through the air. The dawn birds twittered
and piped soft music for her, and the sea murmured a humming, rushing
melody, and still she danced on. As she danced, there arose in the sky
above--slow, bright and clear--the Morning Star. Yama saw her twinkling
feet pass him as she drew nearer and nearer to the sea; and as the first
pink light began to show behind the pine trees she reached the surf.
Flinging her arms high above her head, she plunged in, with her snowy
mantle billowing round her. Long, long Yama gazed after her, but she had
disappeared utterly.
Slowly he turned from the sea. Slowly, very slowly he walked along the
shore towards his cottage. Surely he must have been dreaming! But lo!
close upon the shore were lying little white flakes that must have been
shed from her snowy mantle as she swirled through the air.
Yama stooped to pick them up, but even as he touched them they changed to
tear-drops in his hands.
As I have said before, my great-grandfather's nest was close to Yama's
cottage, and in the winter evenings Yama would tell my great-grandfather
over and over again how Tsuki, the Moon Maiden, had once danced for him.
He never saw her again; but she kept her promise, and every year, on a
winter night, she came with her sisters and left a pile of cloaks on the
top of Fuji. Every year Yama climbed Fuji to fetch them, but, alas, they
always turned to tear-drops at his touch.
Sometimes, too, pieces of her mantle fell to the ground when she was
dancing with her sisters to the Morning Star, but they hardly ever fell
on the seashore where Yama lived.
Yama never forgot her. Years, long years afterwards, when he was an old,
old man he started to climb Fuji as usual. Another bird told my father,
however, that that year he never reached the top; but that Tsuki, touched
with his devotion to her, had come with her maidens one night as he slept
on the mountain side, and, wrapping him in their feathery mantles, had
carried him, smiling in his sleep, to their home in the moon.
* * * * * *
"That's the story," concluded the Japanese bird in his sad foreign voice,
"and that is why we always think of Tsuki, the Moon Maiden, in snow-time."
"Hoots!" said the Owl grumpily. "It's melancholy enough, but I should
have preferred more blood and thunder."
"Anyway, it has passed the time," said the Robin cheerily. "It has left
off snowing. I'm off to the house for crumbs. Many thanks for your
story. I'll tell _you_ one one of these days that will simply make you
_die_ of laughing."
So the Robin flew off, followed by the twittering Sparrow. The Owl
settled herself to sleep again, and the Japanese birds were left
shivering in the corner to think of their own country.
MARY, MARY, QUITE CONTRARY
"_Such as the gardener is--so is the garden_"
Mary, Mary, quite contrary,
How does your garden grow?
With cockle shells,
And silver bells,
And pretty maids all in a row.
There was once upon a time a King who ruled over a vast kingdom. In
the kingdom were all sorts of houses, large and small, and the King
himself lived in a huge palace the like of which had never been seen
for grandeur. Yet, throughout the length and breadth of his kingdom
there was not one single garden. Even the palace itself only possessed
a back-yard.
This grieved the King very sorely. He sent proclamations over land and
sky and sea to men from other countries to come and make him a garden.
He offered vast rewards. But, though gardeners had come from far and
near, though the King himself had watched them from the palace steps,
and had, once even, cut the first sod with a silver spade . . . yet, it
was all no use. The garden _wouldn't_ be made and the flowers
_wouldn't_ grow. Every kind of patent soil, seeds, hose,
watering-cans, weed-killers and mowing machines had been tried in vain.
There were stacks of them lying in the palace yard, but never a single
flower, never even the beginnings of a garden.
One day the King, quite weary of looking through catalogues and
interviewing possible gardeners, had fallen asleep in the little shed
in the back-yard which was known as "The Arbour." As he slept he had a
dream.
He dreamt that a little wizened old man came to him and said,
"Catalogues and gardeners will not help you. You will never have a
garden until you get the Princess Mary Radiant to come and shine on
your back-yard. Only two men in all your kingdom can help you--Sir
Hunny Bee and Sir Richard Byrde--but even these will be no use without
the smile of the Princess Mary Radiant, and for her you must search
over earth and sky and sea."
The King awoke from his sleep with a start.
"What ho! without there!" he cried. "Fetch me the Princess Mary
Radiant!"
The assembled courtiers shook their heads.
"We have never heard of a lady with that name," they said. "Your
Majesty must have been dreaming."
"Dream or no dream," said the King testily, "some one must fetch me the
Princess Mary Radiant, for if she once smiles on my back-yard it will
be turned into a garden with real grass and real flowers--Canterbury
bells and sunflowers--that's what I have set my heart on!"
The courtiers answered nothing and shook their heads once more.
"We don't know such a lady," they repeated.
"Fetch Sir Hunny Bee, perhaps he can find the Princess for us," ordered
the King.
The courtiers all ran off to find Sir Hunny Bee. In a few minutes that
gallant knight appeared, all dusty from the recent ride from his
castle, and splendid in his knightly garb of black and orange.
"What is your will, your Majesty?" said he, bowing low before the King.
"Search over all lands and bring me hither the Princess Mary Radiant,"
said the King, "for if she should smile on my back-yard it will be
turned into a garden."
Now no knight ever dreams of disobeying his Majesty's commands, however
impossible they may sound, so Sir Hunny Bee merely bowed low before the
King and said, "I go,"--and went.
"Real Canterbury bells and sunflowers," murmured the King, listening to
the jingle of the silver bells on the knight's bridle as he rode away.
Sir Hunny Bee had not gone many leagues from the palace when he began
to realise that he might ride and ride, and never find the Princess
Mary Radiant.
"I wish I knew the way!" he cried.
As he said these words, a little wizened old man sprang out on the road
in front of him, and so frightened his horse, that the silver bells
jingled more than ever.
"Ride over hill and dale for seven times seven leagues," said the old
man, "till you come to a gate-post on which is hung a sign-board.
Follow the directions on the sign-board and all will be well."
Before the Knight could say "thank you," the little old man had
disappeared.
So Sir Hunny Bee rode on over hill and dale for seven times seven
leagues, and there, just as the old man had said, was a gate-post, and
on the gate-post a sign-board.
Sir Hunny Bee dismounted from his horse and led it by the silver-belled
bridle up to the gate-post, that he might read the directions that were
written in red letters upon the sign-board.
"THE GARDEN OF THE PRINCESS MARY RADIANT"
No man shall be admitted here,
Till he a fine doth pay.
And he who will not pay the fine
From hence must ride away.
By him that rides here over land,
A silver bell is paid.
He that flies hither through the air,
Must bring a dark-faced maid.
While he that through the sea doth swim,
Must bring a cockle-shell with him.
By order, M. R.
"'By him that rides here over land,
A silver bell is paid,'"
repeated Sir Hunny Bee. "But the question is, to whom do I pay it?"
Once more, like a jack-in-the-box, the little wizened old man appeared
in front of the Knight.
"To me," he said, "and I will take you in. But though you may see all
over the garden, I doubt it you will be allowed to see the Princess.
She has a very uncertain disposition, and sometimes will not appear for
days together."
So Sir Hunny Bee cut off one of the silver bells from his bridle and
gave it to the old man, who put it carefully in his hat, and then led
the Knight and his horse into the garden.
What a garden it was!
Paths of grass, green as emeralds and sparkling with dew like diamonds,
bordered on each side with shells that shone like mother-o'-pearl.
Flowers, flowers everywhere, of every hue and shade. Canterbury bells
and sunflowers indeed! What should you say to bells of real silver,
glowing and shining? To fair maids blossoming and curtseying in the
flower-beds, fair maids so beautiful that the Knight would fain have
stopped with them all day? To roses flowering everywhere? To lillies
trickling oozy scent into gold bowls laid ready to receive it? To
whole bowers of honeysuckle, and whole beds of lavender? To hedges of
every flowering shrub imaginable? To lofty trees whose leaves
whispered soft invitations to the passers-by to come and sleep beneath
their soothing shade? To fountains plashing and showing a thousand
different colours? To fruit of gold and silver hanging from the
branches of the fruit trees, and to birds of every plumage singing the
sweetest songs imaginable?
Truly there never was such a garden!
"There must be a great many gardeners here!" gasped Sir Hunny Bee.
"Oh, no," answered the old man. "The Princess does it all herself,
with the help of some Bees (cousins of yours by the way), a few of the
Byrdes, and the nymphs Wynde and Worta. Everything looks so beautiful
now, because the Princess is in the garden. If we wait in this arbour
here, she will pass behind it on her way to the palace. But do not go
out until she calls you. For no man is allowed to see her face until
she gives him permission. When she speaks to you, tell her your
business speedily."
They waited in the arbour; the little old man still held Sir Hunny
Bee's silver bell in his hat. Presently soft footsteps were heard
approaching, and a gentle voice said:
"Not to-day,"--and the footsteps passed on behind the arbour.
Then the colour faded from the grass and flowers and shells. The
fountains ceased to play, and the birds to sing; and Sir Hunny Bee was
almost ready to cry with vexation.
"She is gone," he said, "and I have come so far to seek her."
"You must wait till to-morrow now," said the old man.
So Sir Hunny Bee waited till to-morrow, and exactly the same thing
happened. The grass shone, and the flowers glowed. The fair maids
turned and curtseyed on their stems. The fountains splashed, and the
birds sang. The Princess passed behind the arbour and once more said
in her gentle voice, "Not to-day," and then all grew dull and dim and
silent, and Sir Hunny Bee more impatient.
He remained there for seven days--and on the seventh, without waiting
for the old man to give him leave, as the Princess approached he called
out:
"Seven times seven leagues over hill and dale have I ridden, most
gracious Princess--and I have waited here for you for seven days. Oh,
grant me permission to tell you of my quest."
Then the gentle voice said:
"Have you paid your fine, oh, bold stranger?"
"Yes," said Sir Hunny Bee.
"Throw it from the arbour that I may see it," said the Princess.
So the old man took the silver bell from his hat and flung it out on to
a flower-bed near.
Immediately it began to grow and blossom till it was many feet high.
"The Princess smiles on it," said the old man, "tell her your mission
speedily."
"Gracious lady," said Sir Hunny Bee from within the arbour, "the King
of a far kingdom has sent me to beg you to come back with me to his
kingdom, and smile on his back-yard that it may become a garden,--even
as when you smiled on my poor bell it grew and blossomed."
"Oh, stranger," answered the Princess, "go home and tell your master
that through the air must he send yet another messenger to fetch me,
ere I will come to him. Come forth now and pluck the flower that
sprang from your bell, and take it to your master in token that I speak
truth."
So Sir Hunny Bee came forth from the arbour to pluck the flower, and
his eyes fell on the glory of the Princess Mary Radiant.
She was dressed all in gold, and her hair was gold, and her glowing
smile was more beautiful than words can tell. Sir Hunny Bee was
dazzled with the sight of her, and, kneeling, kissed her hand.
"Pluck your flower and go," she said, "and if your master will send yet
another messenger, I will come."
So Sir Hunny Bee plucked the flower, and, mounting his horse, rode away
the way he had come. But when he stopped to look at the flower he had
plucked, he found it was only quite an ordinary Canterbury bell!
The King was waiting on the steps of the back-yard when Sir Hunny Bee
approached. It looked drearier than ever. Half a dozen gardeners were
watering a muddy-looking stone with patent water, while the King looked
on. When he saw Sir Hunny Bee he said:
"Have you brought her?"
"No, your Majesty," said the Knight, "but she sent you this flower, in
token that if you will send her another messenger through the air, she
will come. Oh, your Majesty, she is more beautiful than day, and her
garden is Paradise itself!"
"Don't waste time talking," said the King. "Send Sir Richard Byrde.
He learnt to fly long ago. He can fetch her through the air. Have a
garden I must and will. This Canterbury bell shall be planted
immediately." So the half-dozen gardeners were straightway sent off to
plant it.
Meanwhile Sir Richard Byrde had arrived at the palace, having been sent
for by an express messenger. He looked splendid in a knightly garb of
russet brown.
"What is your will, your Majesty?" said he, bowing low before the King.
"Fly through the air and fetch me the Princess Mary Radiant," said the
King. "For if she will smile on my back-yard, it will be turned into a
garden."
Sir Richard Byrde bowed low before the King.
"I go," he said . . . and went.
He had not flown many leagues from the palace when he began to realise
that he might fly and fly, and never find the Princess Mary Radiant.
"I wish I knew the way," he cried.
Then to him as to Sir Hunny Bee appeared the little old man.
"Fly over cloud and through air for seven times seven leagues," said
he, "till you come to a large gate-post on which is hung a sign-board.
Follow the directions on the sign-board, and all will be well. By the
way, you had better take this parcel with you, and open it when you
reach the gate-post," and flinging a little parcel on the ground, the
little old man disappeared. Sir Richard Byrde picked up the parcel,
which was smaller than the smallest seed, and flew on over cloud and
through air for seven times seven leagues. There, just as the old man
had said, was the gate-post and the sign-board. He, too, read the
directions:--
THE GARDEN OF THE PRINCESS MARY RADIANT
No man shall be admitted here,
Till he a fine doth pay.
And he that will not pay the fine,
From hence must fly away.
By him that rides here over land,
A silver bell is paid.
He that flies hither through the air,
Must bring a dark-faced maid.
While he that through the sea doth swim,
Must bring a cockle-shell with him.
By order, M. R.
"'He that flies hither through the air,
Must bring a dark-faced maid,'
but I have not one!" he cried. Then he remembered the old man's
parcel. He opened it and found inside a little egg-shaped doll with a
brown face. He paid this dark-faced maid to the little old man, who
had suddenly appeared from nowhere, and who, putting the maid into his
hat, led the Knight into the garden.
As the garden had appeared to Sir Hunny Bee, so did it now appear to
Sir Richard Byrde. The grass like emeralds, the pearl-lined paths, the
flashing fountains, the gorgeous fruits, the curtseying maids, the
singing birds, and the scented flowers.
As Sir Hunny Bee had been led to the arbour behind which the Princess
was to pass, even so was he.
He, too, asked if there were not a great many gardeners, and was told
that the Princess did it all herself with a few of the Bees, a few
Byrdes (cousins of yours by the way), and the nymphs Wynde and Worta.
He, too, heard the soft footsteps approaching, and heard the gentle
voice say, "Not to-day";--and then he, too, saw the colours fade and
the fountains cease to play, and the birds to sing as the Princess
passed on behind the arbour.
He, too, waited for seven days, and on the seventh, he, too, cried out:
"Most gracious Princess, for seven times seven leagues have I flown
over clouds and through air to seek you; and I have waited here for you
for seven days; oh, grant me permission to tell my quest," and the
gentle voice said:
"Have you paid your fine, most bold stranger?"
"Yes," said Sir Richard Byrde.
"Throw it from the arbour that I may see it," said the Princess.
So the old man took the maid from out of his hat and threw it on to a
bed near, and it grew and grew till it was a fair maid, fairer than all
the others, and curtseying deeper than any of them.
"The Princess smiles on it," said the old man, "tell her your mission
speedily."
"Gracious lady," said Sir Richard Byrde, "the King of a far kingdom has
sent me to beg that you will come back with me and smile on his
back-yard that it may become a garden--even as when you smiled on my
poor maid it grew and blossomed."
"Oh, stranger," answered the Princess, "go home and tell your master
that I will never come to him, unless he comes over the sea to fetch me
himself. Come forth now and pluck the flower that sprang from your
seed, and give it to your master in token that I speak truth."
So Sir Richard Byrde came forth from the arbour to pluck the flower,
and he, too, was dazzled by the golden glory of the Princess.
Kneeling, he kissed her hand.
"Pluck your flower and go," she said, "and if your master will fetch me
himself, I will come."
So Sir Richard Byrde plucked the flower and flew away the way he had
come. But when he stopped to look at the flower he had plucked, he
found it was only an ordinary sunflower.
The King was waiting on the steps of the back-yard, watching a dozen
gardeners trying to rear the Canterbury bell with patent foods. When
he saw Sir Richard Byrde approaching he called out:
"Have you brought her?"
"No, your Majesty," said the Knight, "but she sent you this flower in
token that if you, yourself, will go across the sea to fetch her, she
will come--and, oh, your Majesty, she is more beautiful than day, and
her garden is Paradise itself!"
"Don't waste time talking," said the King. "You know quite well I have
never fetched anything myself in my life. In fact, I have never done
any thing myself. That is one of the privileges of being a King."
"Well, but your Majesty will never have a garden without her," murmured
Sir Richard Byrde humbly, looking round the back-yard, and thinking of
the Princess's lovely garden.
The back-yard certainly did look very dismal. A dozen more gardeners
were already at work trying to plant the sunflower, but they had put it
in upside down. Scraps of old iron, once patent rakes, hoes, or
watering-cans, were scattered about. The smell of the patent soils and
weed-killers was positively horrible. The Canterbury bell drooped
helplessly in one corner.
The King sighed.
"Well, I must have a garden," he said. "So I will put an end to all
this, and go and fetch the Princess myself. After all, I shall only
have to bring her here--and then what a difference there will be!"
So without wasting another minute the King himself climbed the castle
wall, and plunged headlong into the sea.
He had swum a dozen yards or so when it suddenly occurred to him that
he might swim and swim, and never find the Princess Mary Radiant.
"I wish I knew the way," he cried, catching hold of a cockle-shell that
was lying on one of the upstanding rocks.
Then to him, as to the two Knights, appeared the old man. "Swim over
rocks and through water for seven times seven leagues," said he, "till
you come to a large gate-post on which is hung a sign-board. Follow
the directions on the sign-board and all will be well." Then the King
swam on over rocks and through water, for seven times seven leagues;
and there, just as the old man had said, was the sign-board. He, too,
read the directions:--
THE GARDEN OF THE PRINCESS MARY RADIANT
No man shall be admitted here,
Till he a fine doth pay.
And he that will not pay the fine,
From hence must swim away.
By him that rides here over land,
A silver bell is paid.
He that flies hither through the air,
Must bring a dark-faced maid.
While he that through the sea doth swim,
Must bring a cockle-shell with him.
By order, M. R.
"'He that through the sea doth swim,
Must bring a cockle-shell with him.'
Well, here it is," said the King. "So I will just walk in."
This time the old man did not appear, and the King walked straight into
the garden, holding the shell in his hand.
"Ah-h-h, this is the garden I should like to have, perhaps the Princess
could have it transplanted to my palace," said the King. "What a
number of gardeners they must employ here!"
"No, only myself," said a soft voice behind him, "a few Bees, a few
Byrdes and the nymphs Wynde and Worta."
The King turned, but could see no one, though he thought he caught a
glimpse of a gold skirt among the bushes.
He threw down the shell by the path, and running forward, cried--"Oh
Princess, come with me to my back-yard, and make it into a lovely
garden such as this."
Then, for one moment through the arching branches of the trees, there
appeared before him a maiden so beautiful that he was almost blinded
with the sight of her. She was all gold and shining, like the pictures
of Queen Elizabeth. She was smiling, too, but oh, so sadly!
"I will come," she said, "but you, yourself, must prepare the place for
the garden. When it is ready I will smile on it and you. Till then,
though I will come back with you and tell you what to do, you will
never see my face."
As she spoke, a veil of mist shrouded her face and her shining golden
dress. The flowers grew dim, the fruits ceased to shine, the fair
maids to curtsey, the fountains to play, and the birds to sing. The
King shivered. "I thought that when you came I would have my garden at
once," he muttered.
"Come," said the Princess gently.
Together they swam back to the Palace. The King was angry and
disappointed, but the beautiful picture of the golden Princess smiling
at him through the trees was fixed for ever in his mind. He began to
think that he would not mind doing a little digging, if only he might
see her face again. The first thing to be done the next day was to
dismiss all the gardeners; and of all the court only Sir Richard Byrde
and Sir Hunny Bee were allowed to stay in the back-yard, where the King
was going to work with his own hands.
Sometimes in the long days that followed, the Princess sent out her two
nymphs, Wynde and Worta to help him--but all the really hard work he
had to do quite alone. Long days they were, for first there was so
much, much, digging to be done. All the patent soils had got mixed up,
and twisted and turned the King's spade as he tried to dig. He was not
accustomed to digging either, and disliked getting hot, and also
getting blisters on his kingly hands--but as he toiled on he thought of
the Princess and her lovely garden.
Day after day he worked and worked. He felt as if each little tiny
task took him years and years; and then he had to wait what seemed to
him an eternity before anything happened at all; and then another
eternity before the Princess would come and smile upon his garden.
"Will it _never_ be a garden?" he said at last. "Will you _never_ come
and smile on it, and shall I _never_ see your face again."
"Not to-day," she said.
At last, one day, after a long time, when his back was bowed with
digging and his hands horny with working, he suddenly stopped, for a
strange light seemed to be shining from the Palace steps behind him.
"Do not look round yet," said the Princess' soft voice. "Look straight
in front of you first."
He stood quite still, staring at what had been, until now, the backyard.
As he gazed there appeared before him paths of grass, green as emeralds
and sparkling with dew, and bordered on each side with shells that
glowed like mother-o'-pearl. Flowers, flowers everywhere, Canterbury
bells, and sunflowers, roses, lilies and lavender. Fruit trees of gold
and silver glittering in the sunshine, and behind, great dark leafy
trees inviting to shade and coolth. Fountains splashing, and birds
singing. He rubbed his eyes, thinking he must be dreaming.
Then he turned--and there, standing on the Palace steps, was the
Princess. No veil covered her face now. There she stood in all her
glorious golden beauty--smiling, radiant, as her name.
"You have your garden at last," she said.
Now this story might have been written about any garden, yours or mine.
For the honey bee still helps to grow the Canterbury bells, and the
birds still help to scatter seeds, and people still line their paths
with cockle shells, and sunflowers are still called "fair maids" in the
country. As for the Princess Mary Radiant--why, it's only in the
sunshine that the bells look like silver, and the cockle-shells like
mother-o'-pearl, and it's only to the sun that the sunflowers turn
their heads every day . . . and we all know the sun can be "contrary"
enough!
JACK AND JILL
"_When the well is dry, they know the worth of water_"
Jack and Jill
Went up the hill,
To fetch a pail of water;
Jack fell down
And broke his crown,
And Jill came tumbling after.
"Oh dear, how I hate the rain," said Jack to Jill, as they stood at the
window watching the drops trickling down the window-pane. "We can't do
anything really nice when it is raining. I wish someone would take all
the rain away so that we could have nothing but fine days."
I _have_ heard Jacks and Jills say much the same things nowadays! But
this particular Jack and Jill do not live nowadays at all. They lived
a very long time ago, in a far-off country. So long ago, and so far
off, that witches were still alive, and one of them actually lived in
their own village!
The village straggled up the side of a hill, and the Witch's cottage
was at the top of it.
It was a queer-looking, tumble-down place, but people said that from it
there were trap doors and passages leading to all sorts of caves and
cellars dug out of the ground underneath. It was surrounded by very
high branching palings with skull-shaped knobs on the top of them.
The people in the village hardly ever saw the old Witch, except during
thunderstorms and after late winter parties; but everyone who had seen
her, declared that she was very ugly, and beyond a doubt very wicked.
She had an uncomfortable way, too, of sometimes appearing suddenly when
she was not wanted, and granting people's wishes. This sounds very
nice, but it may be horribly inconvenient. The villagers realised
this, and it had become the fashion never to wish for anything; and so,
despite the presence of the Witch, the village was a happy and
contended place enough.
Jack was certainly not thinking about the old Witch when he said, "Oh
dear, how I hate the rain," on that particular afternoon.
And Jill was certainly not thinking about the old Witch, when, a few
minutes later, she heard a "tap-tap" on the door, louder and more
insistent than the pattering of the raindrops on the window-pane.
So they were both of them distinctly frightened when they went to the
door and saw--who but the old Witch herself, on the doorstep!
"Oh dear," said Jack.
"Won't you come in?" said Jill.
And in she came.
She was certainly very ugly. She had a hooked nose and pointed chin.
Grey wisps of hair straggled out from beneath her poke bonnet. Her
eyes were like two snakes, and when she opened her mouth to speak she
showed her long pointed iron teeth. She was dressed in a black cloak,
from which protruded her long skinny arms and claw-like hands. She
carried a broom-stick, and behind her slunk her cat, all draggled with
the wet, and mewing frightfully. She sat down on the chair Jill
offered her.
"Thank you, my dear," she said, in a voice so harsh and grating that it
sounded like a saw scraping over a stone.
"Surely you wouldn't grudge a poor old woman a rest on the way up to
her cottage." This with a leering grin at Jack, who was obviously
disconcerted at her presence.
Jack tried to make some polite reply, and then there was a long
silence, only broken by the pat, pat patter of the raindrops against
the window-pane.
"Now I wonder what you two were talking about so nicely when I came
in?" said the old Witch at last.
"We were talking about the rain," said Jill.
"Yes," blurted out Jack, "we were saying, at least I was, that I hated
the rain. You see, we can't go out when it is raining, and to-morrow
everything will be wet, and we shan't be allowed to walk on the grass,
and there won't be any cricket for days. Oh, I wish----"
"Ye-es," drawled out the old Witch. "I thought so. You wish that
there was not any rain at all."
"Why, yes," said Jack.
"Would you like that too, my pretty dear?" said the old Witch, turning
to Jill.
"Yes," said Jill.
"Very well," said the old Witch. "Ve-ry well! Let us make a bargain
together. If you, my little dear, (turning to Jill) will come and
serve me for a year and a day, I'll manage this rain business for you,"
and she scraped her iron teeth together and smiled more horribly than
ever.
"May I not come and serve you, too?" said Jack.
"Dear me, no!" said the old Witch, bringing her lips together with a
smack. "I don't want any boys about the place. Besides, you'll be
able to enjoy some of the fine weather first, and can tell your sister
how delightful it is when she comes back," and she winked at the cat,
who winked one of his green eyes back at her.
"Is it a bar-gain?" drawled the old Witch.
"Yes," said Jack and Jill together.
Then the old Witch drew from her under cloak, a long thin bag made of
elastic. This she opened, and hung out of the window.
The rain poured in. When the bag was quite full she whipped a piece of
string out of her pocket and tied up the top end. "That will do for
the present," she said. "You can carry the bag, my little dear, and we
will go straight home and begin work immediately. Say good-bye to your
brother and come along."
So Jill kissed Jack, took up the sack, (it was wonderful how very heavy
it was,) and opened the door to go out. It had stopped raining, but
was still grey and cloudy. As it was already dusk there was no one in
the village street as they climbed the hill to the old Witch's cottage
followed by the cat. They went slowly. Jill had plenty of time to
look about her. The familiar cottage gardens were bright with flowers.
Behind them spread the fields thick and lush with growing grass. Over
the road arched the trees in all the freshness of their first spring
beauty. At the foot of the hill babbled and gurgled the village
stream, by the side of which clacked and chattered a few ducks
revelling in the glories of the recent shower. Everything smelt fresh
and pure and spring-like. Only she, Jill, was tired, for the old
Witch's elastic bag seemed to grow heavier and heavier, and the cat
would keep on rubbing up against her legs and disconcerting her by
winking and blinking up at her with his green eyes.
It was quite dark when they reached the old Witch's cottage. Jill felt
she must be getting sleepy, but it certainly appeared to her as if the
branching palings round the cottage were really long lean arms joining
their skinny hands, and as if the skull-shaped knobs on the top of them
were real skulls.
As they approached, all the eyes of all the skulls suddenly lit up like
lanterns. Jill began to wish that she had never come.
They went in. The room was very small and dark, and the ceiling was
covered with cobwebs. There was a horrible smell coming from a huge
cauldron on the fire.
"Hurry up there," called out the old Witch sharply. "Put the bag down
on the floor and lay the table for supper."
Jill let down the bag on to the floor with a thud that disturbed
several spiders and snakes which were crawling about.
"Hurry up there!" called out the old Witch again.
Jill laid the supper. The old Witch ate hastily, clawing huge pieces
of meat out of the smoking cauldron, and throwing titbits to the cat,
who lay, winking and blinking as usual, in front of the fire.
After supper the old Witch called out, "Pick up the bag and follow me."
So Jill picked up the bag and followed the Witch into a corner of the
kitchen.
"Lift up the floor
And open door,"
bawled out the old Witch, tapping the floor with her broomstick.
Immediately a square piece of the floor slid away, revealing a long
flight of black steps.
"Follow me," said the old Witch again.
She went on down the steps and Jill followed, dragging the bag after
her.
The steps were very dark and winding, but at last they reached the
bottom. Jill found herself in a huge vault.
She first of all thought the vault was empty, but when her eyes grew
accustomed to the darkness, she saw that it was filled with rows and
rows of empty casks. Though the casks were empty, yet each one had a
label. Jill strained her eyes to read some of the labels in the dim
light. "Showers," "Dew," "Drinking-water!"
"What extraordinary labels!" she said to herself, and went on to the
next row. "Taps," "Washing-water," "Streams," "Rivers," "Mists,"
"Frosts." One very large one was labelled "Thunder-storms." The next
one to it, "Raindrops, Special, extra loud patterers." The next one,
"Steam reserved for Boats, second best quality only." Rows upon rows
of them, all empty, and all labelled with these curious labels!
"Bring the bag here," said the old Witch, pointing to a cask labelled
"Spring Showers. Pure Refreshers."
Jill lifted up the bag and untied the string. The water went pattering
into the cask. When the bag was empty, and the cask was full, a lid
slid on to the cask by itself. Then the old Witch touched one of the
walls, and another door flew open, leading to a second and much smaller
vault. This vault was full of elastic bags like the one Jill had
carried up the hill.
"Take as many of these as you can carry," said the old Witch.
So Jill picked up as many as she could carry, and they went back the
way they had come.
When they reached the kitchen again the old Witch called out:
"Shut down the floor
And close the door,"
and the floor closed up again.
"I am going out now," said the old Witch. "I shall not be back till
to-morrow at dusk. I shall lock the door so that you cannot get out.
Clean the place and have supper ready for me when I come back."
She took her broomstick. Then, slinging all the empty bags across it,
and balancing the cat on the other end, she mounted it astride.
"Abracadabra!" shouted she.
The broomstick rose up in the air and swirled through the window, which
shut down after her with a bang.
So Jill was left alone to work as best she might. The next night when
dusk approached she laid the supper and set the cauldron boiling.
"Abracadabra," and in swirled the Witch again, and the window shut
after her with a bang!
The elastic bags were full and distended as the old Witch flopped them
on to the floor.
"They are all full of water," said she.
"Where did you get it from?" ventured Jill.
"Aha, I stole it!" said the old Witch, with a wicked grin. "When the
people weren't looking, I stole it! A bag here, and a bag there. Some
nice little thunderstorms I got too. They won't like it when they wake
up to-morrow and find their wells dried up, and their grass withering.
Ha! ha! ha!" and the old Witch ground her teeth together more
maliciously than ever.
"Now, come along, pick up those bags and follow me," she cried, when
she had finished eating her supper. So Jill picked up the bags.
"Lift up the floor
And open door,"
shouted the old Witch, tapping the floor with her broomstick. Once
more they went down the dark steps into the vault. Jill untied the
sacks and emptied them into the different casks according to the
Witch's directions, and as each cask was filled a lid slid on of
itself. There was a terrible noise while the thunder-storm cask was
being filled, and the old Witch had to mutter spells all the time to
prevent it from running over.
When the bags were empty and the casks full, the old Witch went into
the next vault and made Jill pick up and add some more bags to the
number that she already had.
Then they went back to the kitchen again. At the top of the steps the
Witch called out:
"Shut down the floor
And close the door,"