CHAPTER I.

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Transcriber's notes:

Alternative spelling and hyphenation have been retained as

they appear in the original publication. Changes have been

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Page 125 on the top of a dias _changed to_

on the top of a dais

Page 131 tobogganned down a steep _changed to_

tobogganed down a steep

SOAP-BUBBLE STORIES

Soap-Bubble Stories.

FOR CHILDREN.

BY

_FANNY BARRY_,

AUTHOR OF "THE FOX FAMILY," "THE OBSTINATE ELM LEAF," "THE BEARS

OF WUNDERMERK," ETC.

New York:

JAMES POTT & CO., 14 & 16, ASTOR PLACE.

1892.

TO

VERA, ELSIE,

OSKAR, OLGA, ERIK,

NEVA, JESSIE,

LEO, DOROTHY, CLAUDE,

AND

HERBERT.

It was twilight, and the children, tired of playing, gathered round

the fire.

Outside, the snow fell softly, softly; and the bare trees shook their

branches in the keen air. The pleasant glow of the blazing logs

lighted up the circle of happy faces, and peopled the distant corners

with elfin shadows.

All the afternoon the children, pipe in hand, with soap suds before

them, had been blowing airy bubbles that caught the gleams of a

hundred flying rainbows--but now in the fading daylight, the pipes

were put aside, and they threw themselves down on the fur rug, and

looked with thoughtful eyes into the caverns of the fire.

"What can we do now?" they cried, "Won't _you_ make us some bubbles?"

And someone sitting in the shadow, who had watched and admired their

handiwork; whipped up some white froth in a fairy basin, and taking a

pipe, she blew them some bubbles.

Not so beautiful as the children's own, with their pure reflections of

the light and sunshine--but the best she could fashion with the

materials she had at hand; for the only soap she could find was

Imagination, and her pipe was a humble black pen.

CONTENTS.

PAGE

THE TROLL IN THE CHURCH FOUNTAIN 1

THE IMP IN THE CHINTZ CURTAIN 13

HEARTSEASE 22

A STORY OF SIENA 27

THE STONE-MAIDEN 44

THE GRASS OF PARNASSUS 51

THE HEDGEHOGS' COFFEE PARTY 53

UNCLE VOLODIA 68

THE ANGEL AND THE LILIES 95

THE ALPEN-ECHO 100

THE SCROLL IN THE MARKET PLACE 103

A SCRAP OF ETRUSCAN POTTERY 109

THE GOATS ON THE GLACIER 114

THE GREAT LADY'S CHIEF-MOURNER 139

DAME FOSSIE'S CHINA DOG 142

PRINCESS SIDIGUNDA'S GOLDEN SHOES 161

THE BADGER'S SCHOOL 179

BOBBIE'S TWO SHILLINGS 203

THE TROLL IN THE CHURCH FOUNTAIN.

CHAPTER I.

It was a village of fountains. They poured from the sides of houses,

bubbled up at street corners, sprang from stone troughs by the

roadside, and one even gushed from the very walls of the old Church

itself, and fell with a monotonous tinkle into a carved stone basin

beneath.

The old Church stood on a high plateau overlooking the lake. It jutted

out so far, on its great rock, that it seemed to overhang the

precipice; and as the neighbours walked upon the terrace on Sundays,

and enjoyed the shade of the row of plane trees, they could look down

over the low walls of the Churchyard almost into the chimneys of the

wooden houses clustering below.

There were wide stone seats on the terrace, grey and worn by the

weather, and by the generations of children who had played round them;

and here the mothers and grandmothers, with their distaffs in their

hands, loved to collect on summer evenings.

Often Terli had seen them from his home by the mountain torrent, for

he was so high up, he looked down upon the whole village; and he had

often longed to join them and hear what they were saying; but as he

was nothing but a River-Troll, he was not able to venture within sight

or sound of the water of the holy Church Fountain.

Anywhere else he was free to roam; teazing the children, worrying the

women as they washed their clothes at the open stone basins, even

putting his lean fingers into the fountain spout to stop the water,

while the people remained staring open-mouthed, or ran off to fetch a

neighbour to find out what was the matter.

This was all very pleasant to Terli, and at night he would hurry back

to his relations in their cave under the stones of the torrent, and

enjoy a good laugh at the day's adventures.

There was only one thing that worried him. Several of the cleverest

old women of the village, who had on several occasions seen Terli

dancing about the country, agreed to hang a little pot of the Church

water in the doors of their houses; and once or twice the Troll, on

attempting to enter in order to teaze the inhabitants, had suddenly

caught sight of the water, and rushed away with a scream of rage and

disappointment.

"Never River-Troll can stand the sight of the Church Fountain!" said

the old women, and rubbed their hands gleefully.

In the early summer there was to be a great wedding at the old

Church, the Bridegroom the son of a rich farmer, the Bride one of the

young girls of the village; and Terli, who had known them both from

childhood, determined that for once in his life he would enter the

unknown region of the Church Terrace.

"Elena has often annoyed me in the past," laughed Terli, "so it is

only fair I should try and annoy her in the future"--and he sat down

cross-legged at the bottom of a water trough to arrange his plans

quietly in seclusion.

An old horse came by, dragging a creaking waggon, and the driver

stopped to allow the animal to drink.

The Troll raised himself leisurely, and as the horse put in his head,

Terli seized it in both hands, and hung on so firmly that it was

impossible for the poor creature to get away.

"Let go!" said the horse, angrily--for he understood the Troll

language. "Let me go! What are you doing?"

"I shan't let you go till you make me a promise. You get the

Wood-Troll to cork up the Church Fountain at daybreak on Friday

morning, and I'll let you drink as much as you like now, and go

without hindrance afterwards."

"I shan't promise," said the horse, crossly. "I don't see why I

should."

"Well, I shall hang on till you _do_," said the Troll with a

disagreeable laugh; and he gripped the old horse more tightly than

ever.

"Oh, leave off! I'm being suffocated. I'll promise anything," cried

the horse.

[Illustration: "'LET GO!' SAID THE HORSE, ANGRILY. 'LET ME GO! WHAT

ARE YOU DOING?'"]

Terli withdrew his hands immediately, sinking down to the bottom of

the trough with a chuckle that made the water bubble furiously; and

the old horse, without waiting to drink, trotted off with an activity

that surprised his master.

"Remember your promise!" called the Troll, putting his head suddenly

over the edge of the trough, and pointing a thin finger. "On Friday at

daybreak the Church Fountain stopped, or you don't drink comfortably

for a twelve-month!"

CHAPTER II.

Early on Friday morning the bridal procession started gaily, and all

the village folks were so occupied they never noticed that the Church

Fountain had ceased to bubble.

The bells rang out; while the Troll, hidden in the branches of a tree

close to the entrance door, glanced first at the procession and then

at a wedge of wood sticking out of the stone mouth of the Fountain,

and he laughed elfishly.

"Ha, ha! The old horse has kept his promise. This _is_ seeing the

world," he whispered triumphantly.

The marriage ceremony was soon over, and as the newly-wedded pair

stepped out upon the terrace again, Terli drew from his pocket a

little jar of water, and _splash!_ fell some drops from it right in

the eyes of the Bride and Bridegroom.

"It is beginning to rain! I saw the clouds gathering! Run, run, for

the nearest shelter!" cried everyone confusedly, and off dashed the

crowd, panting and breathless.

Now it was an unfortunate thing, that after the wedding everything in

the new household seemed to go wrong.

"The young people have had their heads turned," whispered the old

women, and the poor Bride looked pale and disconsolate.

"It is a wretched house to have married into," she said to her mother.

"Nothing but these poor boards for furniture, no good fields or

garden--all so dull and disagreeable; and then my husband--he seems

always discontented. I think I was happier at home;" and she tapped

her foot impatiently.

Her mother argued and remonstrated, and at last began to weep

bitterly.

"You must be bewitched, Elena, to complain like this! You have

everything a reasonable girl can wish for."

"Everything? Why I have _nothing_!" cried Elena angrily, and ran from

the room; leaving Terli, who was hiding in a water-bucket, to stamp

his feet with delight.

"Ha! ha! it is going on excellently," he shouted in his little cracked

voice. "Once let them have the water from the Trolls' well in their

eyes, they'll never be contented again!" and he upset the bucket in

which he was standing over the feet of the Bride's mother, who had to

run home hastily to change her wet shoes.

"This is the work of the River-Trolls, I believe," she said to

herself, as she held up her soaked skirts carefully. "I'll find out

all about it on St. John's Eve, if I can't do so before"--and she

nodded angrily towards the mountain torrent.

Days passed, and the sad temper of the newly-married couple did not

improve.

They scarcely attempted to speak to each other, and groaned so much

over the hardships of their life, that all their friends became tired

of trying to comfort them.

"They're bewitched," said the Bride's mother, "bewitched, and nothing

else. But wait till St. John's Eve, and you'll see I shall cure them."

She spoke mysteriously, but as she was a sensible woman everyone

believed her.

On St. John's Eve--as I daresay you know--all animals have the power

of talking together like human beings, and punctually as the clock

struck twelve the Bride's mother put on her thick shoes, and taking

the stable lantern from its nail, she went off to the stable, refusing

to allow either her husband or son to accompany her.

As she entered the door of the outhouse, she heard the oxen already

whispering to each other, and the old horse, with his head over the

division, addressing friendly remarks to a family of goats close by.

"Do you know anything of Terli or the Wood-Trolls?" enquired the old

woman, looking at the oxen severely.

"No, no, no!" and they shook their heads slowly.

The Bride's mother then repeated her question to the goat family, who

denied any knowledge of the Trolls with a series of terrified bleats.

"There is only _you_, then," said the Bride's mother to the old horse.

"You have served us faithfully, and we have been kind masters to you.

Tell me: do you know anything of Terli or the Wood-Trolls?"

"I do," said the old horse with dignity. "I can tell you more than

anyone else dreams of;" and he stepped from his stall with an air of

the greatest importance.

The old woman sat down upon an upturned stable-bucket, and prepared to

listen.

"Just before the wedding," commenced the horse, "I was passing through

the village with old master, when we stopped to drink. No sooner had I

got my nose into the Fountain than, _heuw!_ Terli had hold of me, and

not an inch would he loosen his grip till I promised to let him see

the wedding by getting the Wood-Trolls to stop up the Church Fountain.

What was I to do? I was forced to agree, and from that promise comes

all the misery of the Bride and Bridegroom."

The old horse then went on to explain what Terli had done on the

wedding day, while the Bride's mother jumped up from the water-bucket

with a cry of delight.

"All will be well now. You have done us the greatest possible service,

and shall live in leisure for the rest of your life," she said; and

ran out of the stables towards the house, before the astonished

animals could recover themselves.

"I've found it all out," she cried to her husband. "Now all we have to

do is to catch Terli."

"Not so easy, wife," said the Bride's father, but the old woman smiled

in a mysterious manner.

"Leave it to me, husband, _I_ shall manage it. Our children will be

happy again to-morrow, you will see."

CHAPTER III.

The next day at sunrise, the Bride's mother crept off secretly to the

Church Fountain and brought back a large pailful of the water. This

she emptied into a wash-tub and covered with some green pine branches,

and on the top of all she placed a wooden bowl half filled with

butter-milk.

"Terli likes it so much--he will do anything for butter-milk," she

said to herself, as she propped open the kitchen door, and went off

with a light heart to see her daughter.

She carried with her a jug of the Church water, and when she arrived

at the farm house, she gave it to her daughter and son-in-law, and

begged them to bathe their eyes with it immediately.

With much grumbling they obeyed her; but what a change occurred

directly they had done so!

The day, which had seemed cloudy and threatening rain, now appeared

bright and hopeful. The Bride ran over her new house with exclamations

of delight at all the comfortable arrangements, and the Bridegroom

declared he was a lucky man to have married a good wife, and have a

farm that anyone might reasonably be proud of!

"How could we ever have troubled over anything?" said the young Bride,

"I can't understand it! We are young, and we are happy."

The old woman smiled wisely. "It was only the Troll's well-water,"

she said, and went home as fast as her feet would carry her.

As she neared her own door, she heard sounds of splashing and

screaming in a shrill piping voice; and on entering, saw Terli

struggling violently in the tub of Church water, the little bowl of

butter-milk lying spilt upon the floor.

"Take me out! Take me out! It gives me the toothache!" wailed the

Troll, but the Bride's mother was a wise woman, and determined that

now she had caught their tormentor she would keep him safely.

[Illustration: "TAKE ME OUT! TAKE ME OUT! IT GIVES ME THE

TOOTH-ACHE!"]

"I've got the toothache in every joint!" shouted Terli. "Let me out,

and I'll _never_ tease you any more."

"It serves you very well right," said the old woman, and she poured

the contents of the tub--including Terli--into a large bucket, and

carried it off in triumph to the Church Fountain.

Here she emptied the bucket into the carved stone basin, and left

Terli kicking and screaming, while she went home to the farmhouse to

breakfast.

"That's a good morning's work, wife; if you never do another:" said

the Bride's father, who had come into the kitchen just as Terli upset

the bowl of butter-milk, and fell through the pine branches headlong

into the tub beneath. "We shall live in peace and quietness now, for

Terli was the most mischievous of the whole of the Troll-folk."

The words of the Bride's father proved to be quite true, for after the

capture of the Water-Troll the village enjoyed many years of quietness

and contentment.

As to Terli, he lived in great unhappiness in the Church Fountain;

enduring a terrible series of tooth-aches, but unable to escape from

the magic power of the water.

At the end of that time, however, a falling tree split the sides of

the carved stone basin into fragments, and the Troll, escaping with

the water which flowed out, darted from the Churchyard and safely

reached his old home in the bed of the mountain torrent.

"The Church Fountain is broken, and Terli has escaped," said the good

folks the next morning--and the old people shook their heads gravely,

in alarm--but I suppose Terli had had a good lesson, for he never

troubled the village any more.

[Illustration: The troll]

THE IMP IN THE CHINTZ CURTAIN.

He was a wicked-looking Imp, and he lived in a bed curtain.

No one knew he was in the house, not even the master and mistress. The

little girl who slept in the chintz-curtained bed was the only person

who knew of his existence, and she never mentioned him, even to her

old nurse.

She had made his acquaintance one Christmas Eve, as she lay awake,

trying to keep her tired eyes open long enough to see Santa Klaus come

down the chimney. The Imp sprang into view with a _cr-r-r-ick,

cr-r-r-ack_ of falling wood in the great fireplace, and there he stood

bowing to Marianne from the left-hand corner of the chintz curtain.

A green leaf formed his hat, some straggling branches his feet; his

thin body was a single rose-stem, and his red face a crumpled

rose-bud.

A flaw in the printing of the chintz curtain had given him life--a

life distinct from that of the other rose leaves.

"You're lying awake very late to-night--what's that for?" he enquired,

shaking the leaf he wore upon his head, and looking at Marianne

searchingly.

"Why, don't you see I'm waiting for Santa Klaus?" replied Marianne.

"I've always missed him before, but this time _nothing_ shall make me

go to sleep!" She sat up in bed and opened her eyes as widely as

possible.

"He has generally been here before this," said the Imp. "I can

remember your great-aunt sleeping in this very bed and being in just

the same fuss. I got down and danced about all night, and she thought

I was earwigs."

"_I_ should never think you were an earwig--you're too pink and

green--but don't talk, I can hear something buzzing."

"Santa Klaus doesn't buzz," said the Chintz Imp. "He comes down

_flop!_ Once in your aunt's time, I knew him nearly stick in the

chimney. He had too many things in his sack. You should have heard how

he struggled, it was like thunder! Everyone said how high the wind

was."

"I hope he won't do it to-night," said Marianne, "I could never pull

him down by myself!"

As she spoke the room seemed to be violently shaken, and there was a

sound of falling plaster, followed by some loud kicks.

"Whew--w!" cried the Chintz Imp, "he's done it again!"

Marianne started up in great excitement. She sprang from her bed, and

ran towards the old-fashioned fireplace.

Nothing was at first to be seen; but as the fire had died down to a

few hot embers, Marianne could, by craning her head forwards, look

right up into the misty darkness of the great chimney.

There, to her astonishment, she saw a pair of large brown-covered feet

hanging down helplessly; while a deep voice from above cried--

"Get me out of this, or I shall break down the chimney!"

"Oh, what _am_ I to do?" exclaimed Marianne anxiously, "I'm not tall

enough to reach you! Shall I fetch my Aunt Olga, or would you prefer

my old nurse?"

"Certainly not," said the voice, with decision. "I have never been

seen by a grown-up person, and I don't intend to begin now. Either you

must get me down by yourself, or I shall manage to work out at the top

again--and then I'm sorry to say you'll have to go without your

presents."

Marianne sat down on the hearthrug in a state of anxious

consideration. There waved the great brown feet, and two or three

steps would land them safely on the hearthrug, but how could it

possibly be managed?

The Chintz Imp curled up his green legs and sat down beside her, his

bright red eyes blinking thoughtfully.

"We must hang on to him," he said at last; "or what do you say to my

trying to collect a dozen or so children, to pull?"

"Why they'd all be in bed hours ago," said Marianne. "Besides, their

parents would never let them come, and Uncle Max would want to know

whatever we were doing."

"Yes. I see _that_ idea is no good. Have you such a thing as a

pocket-knife?" enquired the Chintz Imp.

"A beauty," said Marianne; "four blades, a button-hook, and a

corkscrew."

"Ah, the corkscrew might be of some use if we could draw him out with

it; but he might object. However, I'll try what I can do with the

knife."

"You won't cut him! You'll have to be very careful!"

"Of course," said the Chintz Imp. "Do you think I am as old as your

great-aunt, without knowing much more than _you_ do! Bring me the

knife. I'm going to swarm up the chimney and scratch away the mortar.

Leave it entirely to me, and Santa Klaus will be down here in an hour

or two!"

Marianne ran off to her little play box, and returned with the knife.

It was almost as large as the Chintz Imp, but he possessed so much

wiry strength in his thin arms and backbone that he was able to

clamber up the chimney without difficulty.

"Are you all right?" cried Marianne, standing with her bare feet on

the edge of the stone fender, and holding up the night-light as high

as she could without singeing Santa Klaus.

"Getting up," replied the Chintz Imp, "but he's in very tight!"

"Is it his sack that's stuck?" enquired Marianne, anxiously.

"Yes, yes! It's only my sack!" cried the deep voice; "you get that

loose, and I shall drop into the room like a fairy."

Marianne strained her eyes up the chimney, but could see nothing.

"Take care! Here's a lot of plaster falling!"

The warning was just in time, for, as Marianne's head disappeared, a

handful of cement fell rattling into the fireplace, just escaping her

bare feet as she jumped on to the hearthrug.

"The knife does beautifully," cried the voice of the Chintz Imp. "I

think when I've loosened this paint box, he'll fall down immediately."

"Oh, do be careful!" said Marianne. "A paint box is what I've been

longing for! Don't chip it if you can possibly help it!"

"Of course I shan't," replied the Chintz Imp. "If he wouldn't kick so

much, I should get him out in half the time."

"I'm not kicking," cried Santa Klaus's voice indignantly. "I've been

as still as a rock, even with that horrid penknife close to my ear the

whole time."

"Have a little patience," said the Chintz Imp soothingly. "I promise

not to hurt you."

Marianne began to feel very cold. The excitement, so far, had buoyed

her up; but now the monotonous _chip, chipping_ of the Chintz Imp

continued so long that she jumped into her chintz-curtained bed,

determined to stay there until something new and interesting called

her up again.

"I can't do any good, so I may as well be comfortable," she thought,

and pulled the eider-down quilt up to her chin luxuriously.

"I _hope_ he'll get out! It _would_ be a disappointment to have that

paint-box taken away again. Perhaps it would be given to someone who

wouldn't care for it. I wonder if it's tin, with moist colours? I must

ask Uncle Max to have that chimney made wider----" At this point

Marianne's eyes closed and she fell asleep.

She was awakened by a loud _thump!_ that seemed to shake the very bed

in which she was lying; and as she sprang up in a state of great

excitement, she saw Santa Klaus picking himself up from the hearthrug

on which he had apparently fallen with great violence.

"Oh dear!" cried Marianne, "I hope you are not hurt? How careless of

the Chintz Imp to throw you down like that!"

"It was no one's fault but my own," said Santa Klaus as he dusted the

remains of soot and plaster off his brown cloak. "I should have

remembered my experience with your great-aunt, but I knew how much you

wanted that paint-box," and he slipped into Marianne's stocking a

japanned box with a whole sheaf of paint brushes.

"Oh, thank you, Santa Klaus! You can't think how I've wished for it;

my own is such a horrid little thing. And those beautiful pictures for

my scrap-book, and the things for the doll's house--and I _really_

believe that's the book of fairy tales I've been longing for for

months!"

Marianne's face shone with delighted expectation as she opened the top

of her stocking and peeped in.

"Not till the morning," cried Santa Klaus; "you know my rule," and

patting Marianne on the head, he disappeared, with his sack much

lightened, up the chimney.

"Oh, do come here!" cried Marianne to the Chintz Imp. "I must talk to

somebody."

"I think you certainly _ought_ to talk to me," said the Chintz Imp,

coming carefully down the brickwork, hand over hand, and laying the

knife down in the fender. "Without me you wouldn't have had a single

present."

"Of course, I'm very grateful," said Marianne. "I wish he had brought

you something, though I'm sure I don't know what would be useful to

you."

"Well, I should like a good many things," replied the Chintz Imp,

perching himself on a brass knob at the end of the bedstead, "and one

or two I think you can get me easily. I'm tired of this room and the

little society I see, and I long for the great world. Can't you get me

put on a settee in the Servants' Hall, or somewhere lively?"

"I'll ask Aunt Olga," said Marianne. "She promised me a Christmas

present, and I was to choose. Suppose I choose new bed curtains?"

"Certainly," said the Chintz Imp, "but be sure you bargain to hang me

in some cheerful place. Sixty years in one room is too much of a good

thing--I want a change!" and he stretched himself wearily.

"I really will do my best for you," said Marianne. "I'm afraid you're

too faded for the drawing-room, but I won't have new curtains until I

can see you put somewhere nice. I suppose you wouldn't like the

passages?"

"Decidedly not," replied the Chintz Imp. "Dull places. No fun, and

nothing going on. The Servants' Hall, or stay where I am!" He folded

his green arms with determination.

"I'm sure I can manage it," said Marianne, and fell asleep again while

she was arranging the words in which she should make the suggestion to

Aunt Olga.

The next day Marianne awoke betimes, and immediately inspected the

contents of her stocking.

There, stuffed clumsily inside it, was everything she had been wishing

for during the year, and more too!

"Do come and look at my things!" cried Marianne to the Chintz Imp, but

he remained rigidly against his shiny spotted background and refused

to move, though Marianne thought she saw a twinkle in his eye, which

showed he was not quite so impassive as he appeared to be.

"I'll try and get him put into the Servants' Hall as soon as

possible," she thought. "It makes me quite nervous to think he may

pounce upon me any minute. Besides, one must keep one's promises! How

extraordinary it is he can make himself so perfectly flat."

As soon as she was dressed she ran down to the dining room.

"Dear Aunt Olga, I've got such quantities of things to show you!" she

cried, "and as you said I might choose, may I please have new chintz

to my bed, and no pattern on it, so that it can't come out and be

Imps--I mean, have funny shapes on it. And may my old curtains be put

in the Servants' Hall? He says it will be more cheerful for him, and

though, of course, he's been very kind to me, I think I would rather

he went somewhere else. Besides, it _is_ dull for him up there, all by

himself--I mean, it would be dull for _any_ kind of chintz."

"I do think Santa Klaus has got into your head, Marianne!" said Aunt

Olga, laughing; but she promised to buy the new curtains.

In course of time they arrived--the palest blue, with little harmless

frillings to them; and the old chintz was carried off to the Servants'

Hall to make a box cover.

There it still hangs, and if you stoop down and examine it closely,

you will see the Chintz Imp looking more lively than ever, with his

green hat on one side, and a twinkling red eye on the watch for any

sort of amusement.

Marianne often goes to see him, but, rather to her disappointment, he

looks the other way, and appears not to recognize her.

"Perhaps it's just as well," she says to herself, "for he seems very

happy, and if the servants knew he was here I believe they would turn

him out immediately."

HEARTSEASE.

The three-cornered scrap of garden by the elm tree, with a border of

stones, and a neat trodden path down the middle, belonged to little

Bethea.

It grew things in a most wonderful way. Stocks and marigolds,

primroses and lupines, Canterbury bells and lavender; all came out at

their different seasons, and all flourished--for Bethea watered and

tended them so faithfully that they loved her.

[Illustration: "BETHEA WATERED AND TENDED THEM SO FAITHFULLY THAT THEY

LOVED HER."]

On a soft spring day Bethea stood by her garden with scissors and

basket, snipping away at the brightest and best of her children;

carefully, so that she might not hurt them, and with judgment, so that

they might bloom again when they wished to.

"Do you know where you're going?" she said--"To the Hospital.

Grandmamma's going to take me, and you're being gathered to cheer up

the sick people there--aren't you pleased?" And the flowers nodded.

"I don't suppose I shall be picked. I don't think I'm good enough!"

whispered a very small purple pansy, who had only recently been

planted, to a beetle who happened to be crawling by. "I should like

to go with the others, though I don't suppose it would cheer anyone to

see me, I'm not light enough!"

"Don't be too sure," said the beetle solidly. "You've a nice velvety

softness about you, and then you have the best name of them all. What

sick person wouldn't like to have Heartsease?"

"I think I've got enough now," said Bethea, as she laid the last

primula in her basket.

"Oh, do take me!" cried the pansy, touching her little brown shoe with

one of its leaves to attract her attention, "I do want to help!" and

Bethea stooped down, she scarcely knew why, gathered it, and put it

with the rest of her flowers.

The drive to the Hospital was along a dusty country road, and the

flowers under their paper covering, gasped for breath.

As soon as they arrived, Bethea, following her grandmother, carried

them up to the room where children were lying in the little white

beds, and gave them to the woman who was in charge of it.

"Please would you mind putting them in water for the children," she

said in her soft voice, and the woman smiled and nodded.

Bethea took a few of the flowers out, and went round to the different

beds offering one or two, shyly, until she came to a thin pale boy--a

new patient, whom she had never seen before.

"He's only been here a fortnight," said the woman in a whisper, "and

we can't get him to take any interest in anything--I don't know what

we're going to do with him!"

"Is he very ill?" asked Bethea, wistfully.

"No, not so bad as some. A crooked leg, that will get well in time if

only we can wake him up a little."

"I'm so sorry I have nothing but this flower left," said Bethea, as

she stooped over the boy's curly head, and gave him the small purple

pansy.

"Oh, I wish I was more beautiful!" sighed the little dark flower.

"_Now_ would be an opportunity to do some good in the world!"

The boy turned wearily, but his face lighted up as he saw the pansy.

His eyes brightened and he seized it eagerly.

"Heartsease! Oh, it's like home. We've lots of that growing in our

garden. I always had some on Sundays!" he cried. "Do let me keep it.

It seems just a bit of home--a bit of home--a bit of home."

He murmured it over and over again, as if there was rest and happiness

in the very sound of it.

"I'll keep fresh as long as ever I can," said the pansy, "It's the

least I can do for him, poor fellow!"

"At all events the flowers are all out of my own garden," said Bethea,

sitting down by the white bed, and then she talked away so gently that

the boy's weary face smoothed out, and he went to sleep.

In a few days' time Bethea begged her grandmother to let her go again

to the hospital, and she persuaded the gardener to give her a

beautiful bunch of pansies to take to the sick boy.

As she entered the room, she saw that the little purple pansy was

standing in a tumbler of water, on a chair by the boy's bed.

Its head hung over on one side, but it looked quite fresh and healthy.

"Hasn't it lasted well?" said the boy, happily. He looked much better

and spoke in a loud, cheerful voice. "It's been talking to me about

all sorts of things! the country, and gardens, and springtime, and

being out and about in the fresh air and sunshine!"

"Well, I certainly have tried to make myself as pleasant as possible,"

said the pansy, but it spoke so low that nobody heard it except the

boy whose ears were sharpened by illness.

"I've brought you some more," said Bethea, holding out her bouquet,

"shall I put them in the tumbler with the little one?"

"Oh, no!" cried the boy anxiously, "I think if you don't mind I'd

rather you gave those to some of the other children. I can't like any

fine new flowers as well as that little fellow. I feel as if he had

made me well again!"

The pansy expanded with pride, and a tear of gratitude rolled out of

its eye, and fell with a splash on the cane chair-seat.

"I'm going to have it dried in my old pocket book, when it's really

withered," continued the boy, "and then I shall be able to look at it

always."

When little Bethea next visited the hospital, the boy with the crooked

leg was just leaving; but his leg was not crooked any longer; his face

was bright and healthy, and safely buttoned up in his coat he carried

a shabby old pocket book, in which lay a withered flower, with one

word written underneath in large pencilled letters--"_Heartsease_."

A STORY OF SIENA.

CHAPTER I.

The house stands on a hill on the outskirts of Siena, not far from the

high red walls that still enclose the town, as entirely as they did in

the times long passed by, when Siena was the powerful rival of

Florence.

Old frescoes, and the stone coats-of-arms of the dead and gone rulers

of the place, decorate the great gates; which seem only waiting for a

troop of knights and soldiers to pass through, and with a blast of

their bugles awake the ancient inhabitants of the crooked streets, and

fill them once more with the picturesque crowds of the middle ages.

We can imagine that the old owners are but lying asleep in their many

storied gothic palaces, their vaulted courtyards, and shady loggias;

ready to rub their eyes and come out as they hear the well-known

sounds ringing across the wide piazza.

But the knights never come, and the old people go on sleeping; and the

new people walk about the streets, and haggle at the market, and drive

their country carts with the great patient white oxen, and crowd on

Sunday up the broad Cathedral steps to kneel in the dim light before

the lighted altar, as generations have done before them.

All round the town stretches the open country. Low sandy hills dotted

with olive and cyprus trees, melting into a blue sweep of mountains;

and about a mile from one of the gates stands the rambling white house

with closed shutters in which Maddalena, the housekeeper, lived alone

with her two grandchildren.

She was a kind old woman and fond of the twins, who had been left

orphans when they were mere babies, but she often thought that surely

no grandmother had ever been plagued before, as she was plagued by

Tuttu and Tutti.

"When they were infants it was easy enough," she would declare to a

sympathizing neighbour. "Give them a fig or something to play with,

and they were perfectly happy; but at times now I am tempted to wish

they had no legs, what with accidents and mischief.--Not that they're

not fine children, and may be a comfort to my old age, but it's a

harassing thing, waiting."

It was certainly a fact that Tuttu and Tutti were constantly in

mischief; and yet their curly black heads, red cheeks, and great brown

eyes, were so attractive, that people--even those whose property had

been seriously injured by them--treated them leniently, and let them

off with a scolding.

The twins were always repentant after one of their misfortunes, and

made serious promises of amendment; but at the next temptation they

forgot all their good resolutions, and never remembered them until

they were in disgrace again.

Grandmother Maddalena devised numerous punishments for the children,

such as tacking a cow's head cut out of red stuff, on their backs,

when they had teazed Aunt Eucilda's cow--or tieing them up by one leg,

with a long cord to the table, for stone-throwing; but Tuttu and Tutti

were incorrigible.

They wept loudly, embraced their grandmother, made all kinds of

promises--and the next day went off to do just the same things all

over again.

There was only one person who had any influence over them, Father

Giacomo, the priest of the little Church of Sancta Maria del Fiore,

close by. He had known them from the time they were helpless babies in

swaddling clothes, till they grew to be mischievous creatures in

homespun trousers; and in every stage of character and clothing he had

borne with them, taught them, played with them, and loved them, until

the _Padre_ had become their idea of all that was wise and good, and

they would do more for the sake of pleasing him than for anyone in the

world, not even excepting their grandmother.

Every Sunday afternoon Father Giacomo called to take them for a walk,

the one only sure way of keeping them out of mischief; and sometimes

to their great delight they would go along the olive-bordered road to

Siena, returning in the evening to the _Padre's_ house, in time to

have a good game with the two cats Neri and Bianca, who had lived

there since their infancy, as important members of the household.

On their eighth birthday, Tuttu and Tutti assured their grandmother

that they really intended to reform. They promised faithfully to give

up tree climbing, fishing in the pond, and many other favourite

sports, and commenced to dig in the piece of kitchen garden under

their grandmother's direction. In fact so zealous did Tuttu become

that he borrowed a knife from one of the farm labourers who was vine

pruning, and cut the whole of the branches off a vine near the house,

ending with a terrible gash in his own thumb, which necessitated his

being carried in an ox-cart to the hospital in Siena, supported in his

grandmother's arms; while Tutti walked behind weeping bitterly, under

the impression that the doctor would certainly kill Tuttu this time

for his carelessness.

Tuttu was not killed, however. The cut was sewn up, while the ox-cart

with its good-natured driver waited outside, and the depressed party

returned home, grandmother Maddalena clasping her little earthen pot

full of hot wood ashes, which even in the excitement of the accident

she had not forgotten to take with her, for it was a cold day in early

springtime.[A]

[A] A _scaldino_, carried about by all the Siennese women, and used in

the house instead of a fire.

Tutti was allowed to ride home in the cart, and sat holding Tuttu's

hand, his eyes round with solemnity, the traces of tears still on his

cheeks.

That night he went to sleep with his arm thrown round Tuttu's neck,

his curly head resting against his shoulder--and though Tuttu was

cramped and uncomfortable, and his thumb pained him, he remained

heroically still until he also dropped asleep, and the two little

brothers dreamed peacefully of pleasant things until the morning.

CHAPTER II.

"Well, thank Heaven! those children are safe for the present," said

Maddalena, as she sat on a stone bench in the sun, with the dark

clipped cyprus hedge behind her.

To the right rose the stuccoed _Palazzo_, with its great stone

coat-of-arms hanging over the entrance, and inside, a peep of the

shady courtyard, with green tubs of orange trees, and the twinkle of a

fountain that shot up high into the sunshine, and fell with a splash

into a marble basin.

Maddalena, in her broad Tuscan hat with its old-fashioned black

velvet--for she would never give in to the modern innovations of

flowers and ostrich feathers--held her distaff in her hand, and as she

twisted the spindle and drew out the thread evenly, she thought with

satisfaction of the improved behaviour of the twins.

Ever since the accident they had been different creatures, and she

wondered how long it would be before they could be apprenticed to some

useful trade, and begin to bring in a little money.

"When I can get hold of the Padre alone I'll ask him about it; but he

really does spoil these boys till I don't know which tyrannizes over

him most--the two cats or the two children!"

Maddalena's reflections were suddenly interrupted at this point by the

appearance of her grandchildren from the back of the yew hedge by

which she was sitting--Tuttu on all fours, neighing like a horse, with

Tutti on his back, blowing a clay whistle.

"We're only doing 'cavalry,' grandmother," gasped Tuttu, with a

scarlet face, attempting to prance in a military manner.

"Cavalry!" cried Maddalena, starting up. "Those children will be the

death of me. Cavalry indeed! Look at your trousers, you disgrace. All

the knees yellow sand, and the elbows in holes!" and she seized her

distaff and waved it at them threateningly.

To avoid his grandmother's arm, Tuttu hastily scrambled under the

stone seat, but his unfortunate rider thrown off his balance, fell

head first against the earthen _scaldino_, which was broken, and its

ashes scattered on the path in all directions.

When Tuttu, lying flat with only his head visible, saw this terrible

misfortune; he crawled out from his hiding-place, and taking Tutti's

hand helped him to get up, and stood courageously in front of his

grandmother.

"It was all my fault, grandmother. Don't scold him! I made him do it,

and I'm so sorry," he said, with a quiver in his voice, but Maddalena

was too angry to listen to him. She had thrown her distaff on the

ground, and was picking up the pieces of the yellow _scaldino_ to see

if it could possibly be fitted together again.

"Go in both of you to bed," she called out without looking up, "and

don't let me see either of you again to-day! Just when I had a

moment's peace too, thinking you were at the Padre's. It really is too

much."

Tutti burst into loud sobs of terror and remorse, but Tuttu took him

by the hand and, without speaking, led him away to the house.

"Why don't you cry, too, Tuttu?" asked Tutti, stopping his tears to

look in astonishment at his brother.

"I'm too old," said Tuttu. "Grandmother's quite right, we do behave

badly to her." And that was the beginning of a new era for Tuttu.

The next day as soon as he was awake, he began to think seriously over

any possible way by which he could earn enough money to buy a new

_scaldino_. He dressed hurriedly and ran off to talk it over with

Father Giacomo, and the result of the conference was a long but kind

lecture of good advice, and permission to weed in the Padre's garden

for the sum of one halfpenny for a large basketful.

Tuttu danced about with delight. "Why, I shall earn the money in no

time at that rate," he cried, "and I'll buy the best _scaldino_ in

Siena!"

He felt that he must commence work immediately, and in the evening he

staggered into Father Giacomo's, with a scarlet face, carrying a great

hamper of green stuff.

When he had a little recovered himself, he unfolded to his old friend

another plan he had thought of during the day, which he was quite sure

would please his grandmother.

"I've got a broken _fiasco_ that the gardener's given me," he said,

"and I and Tutti mean to put a bean each into it every day we are

really good. Then, at the end of the month--a whole month, mind!--we

might take it up to grandmother."

Father Giacomo highly approved of this idea, and encouraged the

children by every means in his power; so that, for more than three

weeks, the beans went in regularly and the halfpence in Tuttu's store,

which he kept like a magpie hidden away in a crack of the woodwork,

increased rapidly.

Old Maddalena had long ago forgiven the children, for though she was

often angry with them, she loved them really. She guessed that Tuttu

was determined to replace the _scaldino_, as on several occasions he

had not been able to resist a veiled hint on the subject; but she

pretended perfect ignorance, and the two little boys might whisper and

laugh to their heart's content--it was quite certain she never heard

anything!

One soft evening in May, Tuttu came into the Palazzo garden in a state

of great excitement. His last basket of weeds had been handed in to

Father Giacomo, and the entire sum for the _scaldino_ lay in small

copper pieces in a crumpled scarlet pocket handkerchief.

"It's all here," whispered Tuttu, one great smile stretching across

his good-tempered little face. "Every penny of it!--Shall it be brown

or yellow? It must have a pattern. We'll go into Siena to-morrow and

buy it."

"To Siena!" said Tutti in an awe-struck whisper, "We've never been

there by ourselves."

"Never mind, we're older now," replied Tuttu. "Don't you say anything

about it, it's to be a surprise from beginning to end."

Tutti agreed, as he always did with his brother. Of course Tuttu knew

best, and it would sure to be all right.

CHAPTER III.

They started early in the morning, having put on their holiday clothes

and brushed themselves; and as Bianca, who had come over from the

Padre's house, insisted on following them, they tied a string to her

red collar and determined to let her share the pleasure of their visit

to the "great town."

Their grandmother was still sleeping, but they left word with the

gardener's boy that they had gone into Siena "on business."

This sounded well, Tuttu thought, and would disarm suspicion.

The walk along the dusty high road was long and tiring, and they were

glad when they arrived safely in the Piazza, where the market people

had already begun to collect, for it was market day.

Tuttu carried his precious earnings tied up with intricate knots in

the handkerchief, and stowed away in the largest of his pockets. He

walked with conscious pride, knowing that he was a person of

"property," and entering the pottery shop at the corner of the Piazza,

began to cunningly tap the _scaldinos_, and peer into them; while

Tutti stood by, lost in admiration at his brother's acuteness.

Finally, a brown pot, with yellow stripes and spots, was chosen and

paid for, wrapped in the red handkerchief, and carried off in triumph

towards the Porta Camolla.

"Whatever will grandmother say!" cried Tuttu, almost shouting for joy,

"I wish I could run all the way. There'll be a big bean in the

_fiasco_ for each of us to-night, won't there, Tutti?"

"You've got a little money left, haven't you, Tuttu?" enquired Tutti,

who was always practical; "Couldn't we buy some cakes. I really feel

very hungry."

"Certainly not," said Tuttu, firmly, "I shall put it inside the

_scaldino_ for grandmother. That'll be the second surprise. Don't you

see, Tutti?"

"But it's only two half-pennies," argued Tutti.

"Oh, she'll be glad enough of that!" said Tuttu, and tramped on

steadily up the street. "Come along, Tutti, we'll go into the

Cathedral."

Tutti remonstrated no more, he knew it was useless; and the two little

boys, ascending a steep flight of steps, entered the Cathedral at a

side door, and knelt down in the dim light in one of the chapels.

Tuttu repeated a prayer he had been taught, and then continued

rapidly, "Thank you, too, very much, for making me and Tutti good; and

please let us go on putting beans into the _fiasco_ till it can't hold

any more--and then we'll find something else...." He paused to

meditate. "Make grandmother pleased with us, and bless the cats."

Here Tuttu could think of nothing else, and nudged Tutti.

"You go on, Tutti."

"I think Tuttu's said everything," commenced Tutti in a whisper. "But

please keep us out of the pond, and make us grow so that we can be

artillery; and take us home safe, for the road's rather long, and

we've never been there alone, and there's oxen about."

"You shouldn't say that, Tutti," said Tuttu, reprovingly. "Oxen won't

hurt you, and you shouldn't be a coward."

"Well, shall I pray not to be a coward?" enquired Tutti.

"If you think it's necessary," said Tuttu. "But you can save that for

another time--we ought to be going now"--so Tutti got up, and the

children pushed their way through the heavy curtain by the door, and

found themselves once more in the bright sunshine.

Certainly Bianca had been no trouble to them. In the Cathedral she

behaved in the most serious manner, sitting by their side, and never

moving until they pulled the string to which she was fastened; when

she got up solemnly, and followed them on to the Piazza.

"I'm glad I prayed for you, Bianca, good cat!" said Tuttu. "You would

never have allowed anyone to touch that _scaldino_, would you?"

Bianca mewed. She was rather bewildered by her walk through the town,

but as long as her two friends were satisfied, that was enough for

her.

As they came out upon the more crowded thoroughfare, the twins with

their white cat attracted some attention, and many laughing remarks

were shouted to them as they edged their way along the narrow paved

street, where the absence of any pathway made it necessary to keep

their eyes very wide open indeed, to avoid being run over by the carts

and carriages.

[Illustration: "THE TWINS WITH THEIR WHITE CAT ATTRACTED SOME

ATTENTION."]

Tutti walked in charge of Bianca, while Tuttu devoted all his

attention to the _scaldino_ in its red handkerchief, and a large green

cotton umbrella he had brought from home in case the day should turn

out to be rainy.

This umbrella seemed to be endowed with life, so extraordinary was its

power of wriggling itself under the legs of the passers by. It had to

be constantly wrenched out, with many apologies, by its owner; while

the person who had been nearly tripped up by it, went on his--or

her--way grumbling.

No one did more than grumble, however, for the look of horror on

Tuttu's face was irresistible.

"Go on, Tutti; do hurry!" he cried, urgently. "I'm getting so hot with

this horrible umbrella. It seems to catch hold of people whichever way

I carry it!"

"I _am_ going," replied Tutti laconically. "But remember, I've got the

cat."

As he spoke a boy darted out from one of the grim old houses close by,

and picking up a loose stone threw it at Bianca, grazing her head, and

leaving a great red stain that commenced to trickle slowly down her

spotless white body.

Tuttu, his eyes blazing with wrath, placed the _scaldino_ by the side

of the kerbstone, and darted at the boy, waving his umbrella; while

Tutti threw his arms round Bianca's neck and tried to hush her mews of

terror by a shower of tears and kisses.

"How _dare_ you?" shouted Tuttu, beside himself with anger. "Go away,

and leave our poor Bianca! You've killed her, I expect; and I wish I

could kill you!" But even in the midst of his ungovernable rage,

Tutti's voice reached him.

"Oh, Tuttu, Tuttu! the _scaldino_!"

Tuttu darted across the street towards the stone where he had left the

precious red bundle. There it was, lying unhurt, and he was about to

seize it and carry it to a place of safety, when a fast-trotting horse

with one of the light country gigs behind him, dashed down the street.

"Get out of the way! Get out of the way!" shouted the driver--but it

was too late!

The gig flew on, and Tuttu lay white and quiet, the _scaldino_ still

grasped in his two little outstretched hands.

CHAPTER IV.

"Where's the _scaldino_, grandmother?" were Tuttu's first words, when

he woke up to find himself lying on a little bed in a long room, with

Maddalena and Father Giacomo bending over him. "We saved up.... It's

all for you...." he muttered brokenly, "Have you got it?"

"Yes, my lamb. A beautiful one it is," said the old woman, the tears

streaming down her wrinkled face. "You lie still and get better, my

Tuttu."

"I will, grandmother, but I want you to see the surprise inside. It's

from weeding.... Father Giacomo will tell you. I'm so tired,

grandmother.... How's Bianca?"

"Very well, Tuttu, she has only a slight scratch.... Oh, my poor boy!"

and Father Giacomo's voice broke.

"Is it near evening?" said Tuttu, after a few minutes, during which he

lay moving his head restlessly.

"It soon will be," said the Padre. "Why do you ask, Tuttu?"

"The _fiasco_.... Do you think I may put a bean in to-night, or was I

too angry?"

"You may, Tuttu," said Father Giacomo, turning away his head. "If you

tell me where it is, I will send for it."

"By the melon bed. Tutti knows. He'll bring it," whispered Tuttu.

"It's nearly full--only four days more. Put one in for Tutti."

As the setting sun streamed into the long room, Tutti crept in,

holding Father Giacomo's hand; carrying the broken _fiasco_.

Tuttu awoke from a restless sleep as they entered, and smiled with a

faint reflection of his old happy laugh. "That's right, Tutti. You

_have_ been good, haven't you?"

"Yes," quavered Tutti, lifting his terrified, tear-stained face to his

brother.

"Put your bean in then, Tutti, and give me mine. It's getting so late,

it's almost night-time."

Tutti held out the bean with a trembling hand, and as it dropped into

the old bottle, little Tuttu gave a quiet sigh.

"It only wants four more," he said happily.

Only four more! But Tuttu might never put them in. That night he

started on a long, long journey, and as the old grandmother with

choking sobs placed the broken bottle on a shelf among her treasures,

she turned to Tutti who was lying, worn out with grief, upon the

doorstep.

"Come, my Tutti," she said, "there are only us two now. We must try

and be very good to each other."

* * * * *

Years afterwards, Tutti, coming home on leave--for he had clung to his

childish idea of being a soldier--found the broken _fiasco_ in the

corner where his grandmother had hidden it; and taking out the beans

that had been lying there so long, he carried them to a little grave

with a small white cross at the head of it.

"Dear Tuttu! He would like to have these growing round him," he

thought, and planted them carefully amongst the flowers and grasses.

Grandmother Maddalena was too old to move out of the house now, but

Father Giacomo watered the beans lovingly, and in the soft spring air

they grew rapidly, so that they soon formed a beautiful tangle, hiding

the cross and even the name that still stood there clearly in black

letters

"TUTTU."

THE STONE-MAIDEN.

Atven was the son of a fisherman, and lived with his father on a flat

sandy coast far away in the North-land.

Great rocks strewed the shore about their hut, and the child had often

been told how, long, long ago, the giant Thor fought single-handed

against a shipload of wild men who attempted to land in the little

bay; and drove them off--killing some, and changing others into the

wonderful stones that remained there to that day.

The country people called them "Thor's balls;" and Atven often

wandered about amongst them, trying to find likenesses to the old

warriors in their weather-worn surfaces; and peering into every hole

and cranny--half dreading, half hoping to see a stone hand stretched

out to him from the misty shadows of the past.

Here and there, a row of smaller boulders lay half sunk in the sand,

with only their rounded tops, covered with long brown seaweed,

appearing above the surface.

These, Atven decided, must be the heads of the ancient Norsemen, and

further on stood their huge mis-shapen bodies, twisted into every

imaginable form, and covered by myriads of shell-fish, that clung to

their grey sides like suits of shining armour.

Atven was often lonely; for he had no brothers or sisters, and his

mother had died many years before. He was a shy, wild boy--more at

home with the sea birds that flew about the lonely shore, than with

the children he met sometimes as he wandered about the country; but in

spite of his shyness he had friends who loved him everywhere he went.

The house dogs on every farm knew his step, and ran out to greet him;

the horses rubbed their noses softly upon his homespun tunic; the

birds clustered on his shoulders; the cats came purring up, and the

oxen lowed and shook their bells as soon as they caught sight of him.

The very hens cackled loudly for joy--and Atven would caress them all

with his brown hand, and had a kind word for every one of them.

All the short Northern summer, Atven spent his evenings in searching

about amongst "Thor's balls" for traces of the warriors of the old

legend; and one night, in the soft clearness of the twilight, he came

upon something that rewarded him for all his patient perseverance.

Lifting a mass of seaweed that had completely covered one of the

larger rocks, he saw before him the graceful form of a little

Stone-maiden!

There she lay, as though quietly sleeping, her long dress falling in

straight folds to her feet, her rippled hair spreading about her. One

small hand grasped a chain upon her neck, the other was embedded in

the rock on which she was lying.

Atven was so astonished that he stared at the child-figure as if

turned into a statue himself.

Then he realized that his long search had been rewarded, and he fell

on his knees and prayed that the Stone-maiden might be released from

her prison, and given to him to be a little playfellow.

As soon as it was daylight the next morning, he started off to ask the

advice of his one friend, the old Priest of Adgard.

The day was fine, with a crisp northern air, and a bright sun that

danced on the long stretches of sandy grass, and on the swaying boughs

of the fir trees.

Atven's heart beat hopefully as he neared the neat wooden house in

which the old Priest lived.

Father Johannes welcomed him kindly, as he always did; and listened

attentively whilst Atven told his story.

"It must have consideration, my child," he said. "I will come down to

the shore to-morrow--perhaps I may be able to think of something."

Atven took up his cap humbly, and started on his homeward journey.

As he threaded his way beneath the shadows of the pine-trees, the

sun's fingers darted through the branches and drew a golden pattern on

the mossy ground under his feet; the mosquitoes hummed drowsily, the

air was full of soft summer warmth and brightness--but Atven's

thoughts were far away with the ancient legend and the Stone-maiden.

How had she come to be amongst the shipload of "wild-men" in the misty

ages when Thor yet walked the earth? Had she a father and mother who

loved her, and perhaps brothers and sisters--and how long had she been

sleeping so quietly in the arms of the great rock?

It was a strange cradle, with only the sea to sing her lullaby, and

wash her lovingly, like a tender mother!

Atven hurried on; and as he peered before him with sun-dazzled eyes,

he thought he saw a figure flitting in and out between the brown tree

stems.

It was a small, light figure, with a strange kind of loose dress, and

long floating hair of a beautiful gold colour. It glided along so

rapidly that Atven had some difficulty in keeping pace with it.

Every now and again it seemed to be beckoning to him with one little

hand; and at last as he ran faster and faster, it suddenly turned its

head, and he saw the face of a beautiful young woman. Her brown eyes

were soft and clear, and her cheeks tinted with a colour so delicate,

it reminded Atven of the little pink shells he sometimes found after a

storm upon the sea-shore.

"Atven! Atven!" she murmured, "You have found my child. Give her life!

Give her life!"

"Tell me what I am to do!" cried Atven, and stretched out his hands

towards the beautiful young woman; but at that moment she reached the

shore, and gliding between the boulders, disappeared amongst their

dark shadows.

Atven threw himself down beside the rock on which the Stone-maiden lay

sleeping. He grieved for her so much that tears rolled slowly down his

cheeks, and as they touched the stone, the great boulder shook and

crumbled, and a shudder passed over the figure of the Stone-maiden.

She seemed to Atven to sigh gently, and half open her eyes; but in a

moment they closed again; the rock settled into its place, and

everything was motionless.

"To-morrow! To-morrow!" he said to himself, "When Father Johannes

comes, he will help me."

Early next morning the old Priest knocked at the door of the

fisherman's hut. He had started at daybreak, for he knew that Atven

would be anxiously awaiting him.

They went down together to the shore; and when Father Johannes saw the

figure of the sleeping child, he took out of his bark basket, a little

jar of water from the Church Well, and sprinkled it over her.

The Stone-maiden stirred and opened her eyes. She raised her hands,

breathed gently, and lifting her head, gazed at the old Priest and the

boy with wistful brown eyes, like those of the figure Atven had met in

the forest.

"Where is my father? Where am I?" she asked, in a low soft voice, as

she rose up from the rock, and shook out the folds of her long dress.

Father Johannes took her hand, and gently repeated the old legend;

while the Stone-maiden listened with wide-open eyes.

"I remember it all now," she said, as the puzzled look faded from her

face. "We had but just landed when the thick cloud came down, and a

shower of stones fell upon us. My father was smitten down with all his

followers, and I only was left weeping upon the shore. A cold air

seemed to breathe upon me, and I fell asleep."

She spoke slowly, in the old Norse tongue, but Father Johannes had

studied it, and understood her without much questioning.

"Where was your mother?" he asked kindly, as Atven with smiles of

delight, seized her other hand.

"My mother died just before we set sail, and my father would not leave

me lonely," answered the Stone-maiden sadly.

"But we will all love you now," cried Atven. "I will grow tall and

strong to work for you, and you shall never be unhappy any more!"

The Stone-maiden smiled, as she stood on the threshold of her new

life. She looked up trustingly at her two friends, and the old Priest

of Asgard, bending down, laid his hand upon her head with a gentle

blessing.

* * * * *

The Warriors' heads, with their tangled elf-locks, still peer out of

the drifting sand--the twisted bodies in their sea armour, lie half

surrounded by the green waters; but the log hut, and Atven have

vanished into the misty shadows of the past. They, and the good old

priest, have drifted away to Shadow-Land.

Only the sea talks of them still; and croons them a lullaby, as soft

as the centuries-old song, it sang over the cradle of the enchanted

Stone-maiden.

THE GRASS OF PARNASSUS.

On the banks of a clear stream in one of the far away Greek islands,

grew a small flowering plant, with delicate stem and transparent white

flower, called "Grass of Parnassus."

Every day it saw its own face, reflected in the running water, and

every day it made the same complaint--

"This place is beautiful, the soft earth wraps me round, the branches

bend over me, but I can never be happy, for I have never seen a

River-God!"

The fish swimming close to the shore had talked to the Grass, of the

mysterious race who lived in the shallows of the river, higher up,

where it broadened into a lake; and played on their rude pipes as they

rested in the flickering gloom of the water-weeds and rushes.

"Everyone has seen the River-Gods but me!" said the white flower. "The

wind brings me the floating sound of their piping--I can even hear

their laughter, and the echo of their voices. Yet they do not come,

and I may wither, and never have the happiness I long for!"

But one day, the river-side thrilled, with a strange, new feeling of

hope and expectation. The sun shone, a faint breeze stirred the trees;

and down the stream waded a beautiful youth, carrying his pipes in his

hand, blowing a few notes mournfully, at long intervals. His hair,

crowned with an ivy wreath, hung down, curled and tangled; his

hoof-feet splashed in the shallows of the water, and he cried--

"Nadiä! Nadiä! Where are you hiding--Why do you not come to me?"

The white flower remained, enchanted and motionless, upon its stem,

bending its yellow eye upon the stranger.

"Nadiä! Nadiä!" the voice wailed, "Do not hide from me any more!--Come

to me!"

The bushes rustled and parted; a delicate girl's face looked out, and

a wood nymph in floating garments, slid to the side of the stream, and

dabbled her white feet in the water.

The youth gave a cry of joy; "I have found you, Nadiä! I have piped to

you, and called to you till I was weary; but I loved you, and at last

I have found you!"

The wood nymph smiled as she sat in the flickering shadows--and the

River-God bending down, gathered the Grass of Parnassus, and placed it

timidly in her shining tresses.

The wish of the white flower had been fulfilled; but the end of its

life's longing was--Death.

THE HEDGEHOGS' COFFEE PARTY.

A STORY OF THURINGIA.

CHAPTER I.

It was winter time, and the Thuringia-Wald lay still and white under

its snowy covering.

The fir trees waved their branches in the frosty air, and a clear moon

had risen over the mountains.

All was quiet and deserted, except that a faint sound of music and

singing floated on the wind, coming undoubtedly from the comfortable

burrow of the Hedgehog family, who lived under one of the largest pine

stumps.

Councillor Igel--for the father was a member of the Hedgehog

Government--had consented to allow the young people to have one or two

friends to coffee, and they had been dancing with the greatest spirit

for the last half hour.

By the porcelain stove stood the Councillor's only brother, Uncle

Columbus, who had devoted himself since childhood to learned pursuits,

and was much respected by the rest of the family.

He looked down upon all amusements as frivolous, but then he had been

to College, so his superior mind was only what was to be expected.

The Councillor belonged to an ancient Thuringian race who had been

settled for centuries in the forest near the little town of Ruhla.

They were a proud family, for one of their uncles had, some years

before, been called to take up the position of Court Hedgehog at the

Royal country Palace, where he moved in the highest society, and

occasionally invited his relations to visit him.

"But fifty miles is really almost too far to go with nothing but a cup

of coffee at the end," said the Hedgehog-mother, "and he never invites

us to sleep. We don't, therefore, see so much of him as we otherwise

should do."

"That must be very trying," replied the Mole-mother, to whom these

confidences were being poured out.

"Yes, for of course it would be an inestimable advantage to the

children to see a little Court life. However, with the fashions

altering so quickly, it would be difficult for me to arrange their

dresses in the last mode--and I couldn't have them looked down upon."

"Of course not," humbly replied the Mole-mother. She was sitting by

the table, with her homespun knitting in her hand; and though she was

trying to pay attention to her friend's words, she was arranging her

dinner for the next day at the same time, and wondering whether her

eldest child could have one more tuck let out of her frock before

Christmas time.

"It's all very well for the Hedgehog-mother," she thought. "She comes

of a high family, and can live in luxury; but with all my children,

and my poor husband working away from morning till night, I'm obliged

to plan every coffee bean, or I could never keep the house together!"

The Councillor's wife, however, talked on without noticing her

distraction.

"Do you ever find any inconveniences from living so near the town?"

she enquired. "Do the boys ever annoy you? They are sometimes very

ill-bred."

"Our house is in such a retired position, I seldom see anyone,"

replied the Mole-mother. "The Forester's family are our nearest

neighbours, and really they are so kind they might almost be Moles

themselves."

"That is very pleasant for you," said the Frau Councillor. "_Our_ case

is quite different. The Rats who keep the inn at the cross roads, are

most disagreeable people. We can't associate with them."

[Illustration: "THE RATS WHO KEEP THE INN ARE MOST DISAGREEABLE

PEOPLE."]

"Gypsies!" cried Uncle Columbus at this moment. He had an unpleasant

habit when he did not like the conversation, of suddenly reminding the

family of a tragedy that had happened some sixty years ago, when a

promising young Hedgehog had been carried off to captivity by a band

of travelling Tinkers, and finally disposed of in a way too terrible

to be alluded to.

The Councillor's wife looked angry, and hastily changed the subject.

"He is quite a trial to us sometimes!" she whispered to the

Mole-mother. "Such bad taste to mention Gypsies. It makes me tremble

in every quill!"

"I think I must be going now," said the Mole-mother hurriedly, putting

away her knitting into a reticule, and tying a woollen hood over her

head--for she felt that it would not do for strangers to be mixed up

in these family matters.

Calling her children to her, she helped them into their warm galoshes;

and lighting a small lantern, they were soon out in the snowy forest.

CHAPTER II.

"Oh, mother, I wish we were rich like the Hedgehogs," cried the eldest

daughter, Emmie; "Wilhelm and Fritz are so fashionable, and on Berta's

birthday they are going to give a grand coffee party, to which the

Court Hedgehog is expected!"

"Well, they won't ask us, so you had better not think too much about

it," said the Mole-mother; "don't let your mind run on vanities."

As she spoke they saw the two rats from the Inn coming towards them.

The elder--the proprietor of the Inn--in a peasant's dress with a pipe

in his mouth, dragging a small sledge on which three infant rats were

seated, wrapped in a fur rug, while their mother walked beside

them, her homespun cloak trailing over the snow.

"Good evening, neighbours!" cried the Mole-mother pleasantly, for

though she did not exactly approve of the Rat household, she always

treated them with civility. "Where are you out so late? How well the

children are looking!"

"Yes, they grow rapidly--bless their little tails and whiskers!" said

the Rat-mother proudly. "We have just been to my brother's in the

town, taking a cup of coffee with him, and there we heard some news.

_I_ can tell you! There's to be a grand Coffee Party at the Hedgehogs,

and though all the guests have been invited, _we_ alone are left out.

Most insulting _I_ call it!"

"Well, it _is_ rude," allowed the Mole-mother, "but they've not asked

us either. You see the Court Hedgehog is to be there, and so it is

very select."

"Select! I'll make them select!" growled the proprietor of the Inn

with a scowl. "Who are they I should like to know? They may have

Gypsies upon them at any moment!"

"Oh, I hope not!" cried the Mole-mother.

"There's a Tinker's boy in the town," said the Innkeeper, darkly, "and

he's always looking out for Hedgehogs--I shouldn't be surprised if he

heard where the family live."

"Good-night!" said the Mole-mother, nervously, and hurried on with her

children.

"Some mischief will be done if we don't watch," she said to Emmie,

who was a mole of unusual intelligence. "I'll tell your brother to

keep his eye on the Rat Inn."

After about half an hour's walking, they arrived at home; for their

house was in a secluded position in the most unfrequented part of the

forest.

Though very simple, it was clean and well kept, and furnished with a

large cooking stove, a four-post bedstead, and a few wooden benches.

In the one arm-chair sat the Mole-father, reading the newspaper; while

his sister, Aunt Betta, with a cap with long streaming ribbons on her

head, was busily stirring something in a saucepan.

As the Mole-mother and her family, descended the stone stairway that

led from the upper air, a delicious smell of cooking greeted them. Two

large tallow candles were burning brightly, and altogether the house

presented a very lively appearance.

"Here you are at last," cried the Mole-father. "Supper is just ready,

and I have sent Karl to the Inn for some lager-beer."

"I wonder if he will hear anything," said the Mole-mother taking off

her galoshes; and then she related all the news of the evening.

"If there isn't some mischief brewing, may I be made into waistcoats!"

exclaimed the Mole-father, throwing down his newspaper.

It was his favourite expression when much excited, and never failed

to give the Mole-mother a shiver all down her back. She called it such

very strong language.

At this moment Karl came clattering down the steps.

"Oh, father! mother! I _have_ heard something!" he shouted. "The

Rat-father has started off to the Tinker's to tell the boy where the

Hedgehogs are living!"

The Mole-mother sank down on a bench gasping.

"He's done it then! Oh, the poor Hedgehogs!" she cried wringing her

hands, "They'll be cooked in clay before they can turn round."

"Don't be in such a hurry, wife," said the Mole-father. "I've thought

of something. We won't terrify the Hedgehogs--What can _they_ do?--but

we'll collect all the Moles of the neighbourhood, and make a burrow

all round the house; then if the Tinker's son comes, he'll fall in,

and can't get any further. What do you think of that, eh?"

"An excellent idea!" said the Mole-mother, recovering. "Send Karl

round to-night, and begin the first thing to-morrow morning."

As soon as daylight dawned in the forest, the Mole-father, accompanied

by his wife and children, and all their friends; went out in a long

procession, with their shovels and wheelbarrows, and commenced work

round the Hedgehogs' house.

The Councillor's family were so busily occupied in turning out, and

arranging, their rooms for the festivity--which was to include a dance

in the evening--that they had no time to take any notice of the

Moles' digging; in fact they never even observed it. The younger

Hedgehogs were roasting coffee. The house-mother sugared the cakes in

the back-kitchen, while the Councillor, with a large holland apron,

rubbed down the floor, and gave a final dust to the furniture.

As to Uncle Columbus--he sat on a sort of island of chairs in one

corner, studying a book, and looking on misanthropically at the

preparations.

The Moles, therefore, were quite uninterrupted, and burrowed away

vigorously, until the earth all round the house was mined to a depth

of several feet; and they returned home to dinner in high spirits.

"If that boy dares to venture, may I be made into waistcoats, if he

doesn't fall in!" cried the Mole-father, wiping his face with a red

cotton pocket-handkerchief--for though the snow was on the ground the

work was exhausting.

CHAPTER III.

The Tinker's family sat round a fire, in one of the tumble-down wooden

cottages that dotted the outskirts of the little town of Ruhla.

A small stove scarcely warmed the one room, for great cracks appeared

in the walls in every direction.

"We've got no dinner to-day; are you going after those Hedgehogs?"

said the Tinker to his son Otto. "Now you know where they are, it

will be an easy thing to get hold of them."

"Yes; we'll have a fine supper to-night," said Otto, stamping his feet

to get them warm. "Come with me, Johann, and we'll take the old sack

over our shoulders to bring them back in."

They started off over the crisp snow sparkling in the early sunshine,

away to the forest; and straight towards the great pine tree, which

sheltered the underground home of Councillor Igel.

"Come, Johann!" cried Otto, bounding along over the slippery pathway;

but Johann was small and fat, and his little legs could not keep pace

with Otto's long ones. He soon fell behind, and Otto raced on by

himself.

"Do be careful, Otto! There's lots of Moles here," cried little

Johann, but Otto did not stop to listen. On he ran almost up to the

pine tree; when Johann saw him suddenly jump into the air, and

disappear through the snow with a loud shriek.

CHAPTER IV.

At the sound of the fall, the Councillor ran up the steps to his front

door, and put out his head cautiously to see what was the matter.

"Gypsies!" said Uncle Columbus without raising his eyes from his

book; and for the first time in his life he was right!

Gypsies it certainly was, as the Councillor soon determined; and he

hastily scratched some snow over the door, and retired to the back

kitchen with his whole family, in a terrible state of fright and

excitement.

"What _can_ the boy have fallen into?" he enquired vainly of the

Hedgehog-mother, and of Uncle Columbus, in turn. "There are no houses

there that _I_ know of. We have been saved by almost a miracle!"

As they remained shuddering in a little frightened knot--only Uncle

Columbus maintaining his philosophical calm--the air filled with the

odour of burnt sugar; a faint knocking was heard against the side of

the stove pipe, and in another minute the Mole-father's red nightcap

appeared through a hole, and his kind face shortly followed.

"Don't be frightened," he said reassuringly. "I have made a little

tunnel and come through--merely to explain things. I thought perhaps

you might be a little alarmed."

"Alarmed!" cried the Hedgehog-mother. "It doesn't describe it!

Terrified, and distracted, is nearer to the real thing. The sugar

biscuits are all spoilt, for I forgot them in the oven; and my

daughter Berta fainted on the top of the stove, and is so seriously

singed, she will be unable to appear at the party. Not that we shall

be able to have a party now," continued the Hedgehog-mother, weeping,

"for Uncle Columbus sat down on the plum cake in mistake for a

foot-stool, and Fritz has trodden on the punch bottles. Oh, what a

series of misfortunes!"

"Cheer up, my good neighbour, all will come right in time," said the

Mole-father encouragingly.

"As long as the Court Hedgehog doesn't appear in the middle," wailed

the Councillor. "It makes me shudder in every quill to think of it.

Not even a front door to receive him at!"

"Oh, as to that, let him come to us, and we will give him the best we

have," replied the Mole-father. "Our place is homely, but I daresay he

will condescend to put up with it till your house is in order again. I

sent Karl on to intercept him, and explain just how it is. He will

take him straight to our house till you are ready for him."

"Well, I must say you have been exceedingly thoughtful," said the

Councillor, pompously, "and I feel sincerely grateful to you; but now,

will you kindly explain to me the cause of this severe disturbance?"

"I think I'll come into the room first, if you'll allow me," said the

Mole-father. "I am getting rather a crick in the neck from sticking my

head through here."

"Come in by all means," said the Hedgehog-mother, graciously. "I am

sorry to be obliged to receive you in this humble apartment."

"Gypsies!" growled Uncle Columbus, who was brushing the currants and

crumbs off his coat with a duster.

The Mole-father had by this time worked himself into the kitchen,

dragging his spade after him; and seated on a bench by the stove, he

related the whole story to the Councillor, but carefully omitted to

give the name of the person who had betrayed the Hedgehogs to the

Tinker's family; and notwithstanding the requests of the whole family,

he firmly refused to do so.

"All's well that ends well," he said cheerfully, "and as I heard the

Tinker forbidding his sons ever to come near the place again, you will

be quite safe in the future."

"What has happened to that dreadful boy? Is he still in the hole, or

have they got him out?" enquired the Hedgehog-mother anxiously.

"Got him out some time ago," said the Mole-father, "and carried him

off to the hospital. Broke his leg, I am sorry to say, though it's

nothing very bad. He will be all right in six weeks or so. I don't

think much of those human fractures."

"Serves him right," said the Councillor viciously. "And now, my good

preserver, in what way can we show our gratitude to you? I shall send

Fritz and Wilhelm into the town for more provisions, and we might have

our Coffee Party after all. What do you say to that, my children?"

The family clapped their hands joyfully.

"I trust you and your family will grace the party?" said the

Hedgehog-mother to the old Mole.

"On one condition," he replied, "I shall be delighted to do so; and

that is that you will allow me to ask the Rats from the Inn. They are

touchy people, and do not readily forgive an injury."

"What I said all along," muttered Uncle Columbus, lifting his eyes

from his dusting. "I said 'away with pride,' but I wasn't listened

to."

"You will be now," said the Councillor in a soothing and dignified

manner. "Certainly; send an invitation to the Inn if you wish it. Just

write, 'To meet the Court Hedgehog,' at the top, Wilhelm; it will make

it more gratifying."

CHAPTER V.

The Court Hedgehog, with an escort of six guards, had meanwhile

arrived at the Mole's house, and was being entertained by the

Mole-mother and her children, who were all in a state of great

nervousness.

The Court Hedgehog, however, appeared to be more condescending than

could have been expected from his position. He accepted some

refreshment, and a pipe of the Mole-father's tobacco, and then

reclining in the one easy chair, he awaited the course of events with

calmness.

Here the Councillor found him some hours later, when the confusion in

the Hedgehog household having been smoothed over--a deputation of the

father and sons started to bring the distinguished guest home in

triumph.

The rooms in the Councillor's house had all been gaily decorated with

pine branches; the stove sent out a pleasant glow; and the

Hedgehog-mother, in her best cap and a stiff black silk dress, stood

waiting to welcome her guests in the ante-room.

By her side sat Berta, who had fortunately recovered sufficiently to

be present at the entertainment; though still suffering from the

effects of the shock, and with her head tied up in a silk

handkerchief.

[Illustration]

As the Court Hedgehog appeared in the doorway, three of the younger

children, concealed in a bower of branches, commenced to sing an ode

composed by Uncle Columbus for the occasion, beginning "Welcome to

our honoured guest,"--while a fiddler hired for the occasion

accompanied it upon the violin, behind a red curtain.

The first visitors to arrive were the Moles; followed by the Rat

family, who were filled with remorse when they received the

invitation, at the thought of their treacherous behaviour.

"I declare, mother," said the Innkeeper to his wife in a whisper, "the

Mole-father is such a good creature, I shall be ashamed to quarrel

with any of his friends for the future. 'Live and let live,' ought to

be our motto."

Uncle Columbus did not appear till late in the evening, when he

entered the room dressed in an antiquated blue coat with brass

buttons, finished off by a high stand-up white collar.

He staggered in, carrying a large plum cake about twice the size of

the one he had unfortunately sat down upon; which he placed upon the

coffee table, where the Hedgehog-mother was presiding over a large

collection of various cups, mugs, and saucers.

"I have only just come back from town, where I went to procure a cake

fit for this happy occasion," he whispered. "It does my heart good to

see this neighbourly gathering, and I have made up my mind to promise

you something in memory of the event. I will from this day, give up

for ever a habit which I know has been objectionable to you--the word

'Gypsies' shall never again be mentioned in the family."

UNCLE VOLODIA.

A STORY OF A RUSSIAN VILLAGE.

CHAPTER I.

On the one hill of the district, just outside the village of Viletna,

stood the great house belonging to Madame Olsheffsky.

All round it lay, what had once in the days gone by, been elaborate

gardens, but were now a mere tangle of brushwood, waving grass, and

wild flowers.

Beyond this, again, were fields of rye and hemp, bounded on one side

by the shining waters of the great Seloe Lake, dug by hundreds of

slaves in the time of Madame Olsheffsky's great-grandfather; and on

the other by the dim greenness of a pine forest, which stretched away

into the distance for mile after mile, until it seemed to melt into

the misty line of the horizon.

Between the lake and the gardens of the great house, lay Viletna, with

its rough log houses, sandy street, and great Church, crowned with a

cupola like a gaily-painted melon; where Elena, Boris, and Daria, the

three children of Madame Olsheffsky, drove every Sunday with their

mother in the old-fashioned, tumble-down carriage.

All the week the children looked forward to this expedition, for with

the exception of an occasional visit to Volodia Ivanovitch's shop in

the village, it was the only break in the quiet monotony of their

lives.

They were allowed to go to Volodia's, whenever they had money enough

to buy anything; and often spent the afternoon there listening to his

long tales, and examining the contents of the shop, which seemed to

supply all that any reasonable person could wish for--from a ball of

twine to a wedding dress.

Volodia himself, had been a servant at the great house many years

before, "when the place was kept up as a country gentleman's should

be"--he was fond of explaining to the children--"but when the poor

dear master was taken off to Siberia--he was as good as a saint, and

no one knew what they found out against him--then the Government took

all his money, and your mother had to manage as well as she could with

the little property left her by your grandfather. She ought to have

owned all the country round, but your great-grandfather was an

extravagant man, Boris Andreïevitch! and he sold everything he could

lay hands on!"

Elena and Boris always listened respectfully. They had the greatest

opinion of "Uncle Volodia's" wisdom, and they could just remember the

time of grief and excitement when their father left them; but it had

all happened so long ago that though their mother often spoke of him,

and their old nurse Var-Vara was never tired of relating anecdotes of

his childhood, they had gradually begun to think of him, not as a

living person, but as one of the heroes of the old romances that still

lingered on the shelves of the dilapidated library.

It was a happy life the children led in the great white house. It made

no difference to them that the furniture was old and scanty, that the

rooms were bare, and the plaster falling away in many places from the

walls and ceilings.

Their mother was there, and all their old friends, and they wished for

nothing further.

Was there not Toulu, the horse, in his stall in the ruined stable;

Tulipan, the Pomeranian dog, Adam, the old butler, and Alexis, the

"man of all work," who rowed their boat on the lake, tidied the

garden--as well as the weeds and his own natural laziness would allow

him--and was regarded by Boris as the type of all manly perfection!

What could children want more? Especially as Volodia was always ready

at a moment's notice to tell them a story, carve them a peasant or a

dog from a chip of pine-wood, dance a jig, or entertain them in a

hundred other ways dear to the heart of Russian children.