The children, Volodia and his wife, Var-Vara, and Adam; all stood
round eagerly as André Olsheffsky superintended the forcing open of
the precious box.
"It's my belief the papers will be a pulp," whispered Volodia. "We
must be ready to stand by the _Barin_ when he finds out the
disappointment."
But the papers were not hurt. The box contained another tin-lined
case, in which the parchments had lain securely, and though damaged in
appearance, they were as legible as the day on which they were first
written.
"Oh, papa, I _am_ so glad!" shouted Boris and Daria; and Elena
silently took her father's hand.
"I always thought the _Barin_ would have his own again," cried Volodia
triumphantly, forgetting that only a moment before he had been full of
dismal prophecies.
Adam and Var-Vara wept for joy, and Ivan stood by smiling
complacently. He felt that all this happiness had been brought about
entirely by his own exertions, and he already had visions of the
manner in which he would employ the handsome reward.
"No more troubling about my old age," he thought. "I shall have as
comfortable a life as the best of them."
That evening Mr. Olsheffsky started for Moscow, carrying the
parchments with him.
The two months of his absence seemed very long to the children, though
they heard from him constantly; and there were great rejoicings when
he returned with the news that their affairs had at last been
satisfactorily settled. Mikhail Paulovitch had withdrawn his claim,
and the great house was their own again.
All the peasants of the neighbourhood came in a body to congratulate
them. Those who could not get into Volodia's little sitting-room
remained standing outside, and looked in respectfully through the
window; while the spokesman read a long speech he had prepared for the
occasion.
Mr. Olsheffsky made an appropriate reply, and then, turning to Volodia
and the old servants, he thanked them in a few simple words for their
goodness to the children.
"You might have knocked me flat down with a birch twig," said Uncle
Volodia afterwards, when talking it over with Adam. "The idea of
thanking _us_ for what was nothing at all but a real pleasure! He's a
good man, the _Barin_!"
The springtime found the children and their father settled once more
in their old home, with Adam, Var-Vara, and Alexis; and life flowing
on very much as it had always done, except for the absence of the
gentle, motherly, Anna Olsheffsky.
Uncle Volodia continued to look after his shop with zeal; and the two
rooms with the gilt furniture, which Mr. Olsheffsky had insisted on
his not removing, became objects of the greatest pride and joy to him.
He never allowed anyone but himself to dust them, and in spare moments
he polished the looking-glass with a piece of leather, kept carefully
for the purpose in a cigar box.
"It's a great pleasure to me," he remarked one day to a neighbour, "to
think that when I leave this house to Boris Andreïevitch--as I intend
to do, after old Maria--it will have two rooms that are fit for_any_one
of the family to sleep in. He'll never have to be ashamed of _them_!"
On his seventieth birthday, Elena--now grown a tall slim young lady,
with grave brown eyes--persuaded him that it was really time to take a
little rest, and enjoy himself.
He thereupon sold his stock, and devoted himself to gardening in the
yard at the back of his house; where he would sit on summer evenings
smoking his pipe, in the midst of giant dahlias and sunflowers.
Here Daria often came with Boris and Tulipan; and sitting by Uncle
Volodia's side, listened to the well-known stories she had heard since
her babyhood--always ending up with the same words in a tone of great
solemnity--
"And _this_, children, is a true story, every word of it!"
THE ANGEL AND THE LILIES.
A Norwegian Story.
It was a room at the top of a rough wooden house in Norway. Though it
was only a garret, it was all very white and clean; and little Erik
Svenson lay in the small bed facing the barred window, through which
the moonbeams streamed till they seemed to turn the walls into
polished silver.
As Erik tossed about, he heard his mother working in the room below.
The _thump, thump,_ of her iron, as she wearily finished the last of
the clothes, that must be sent home to the rich family at the
farmhouse, early next morning.
"Poor mother! how hard she works," thought Erik, "and I can't do more
than mind Farmer Torvald's boat on the fiord. If I could only be
employed in the town, I might be able to help her!"
_Thump_, _thump_, went the iron. The clock chimed twelve, and still
the poor washerwoman smoothed and folded, though her heavy eyes almost
refused to keep open, and the room began to feel the chill of the
frosty air outside.
"Erik sha'n't want for anything while I have two arms to work for
him," she said to herself; and went on until the iron fell from her
tired hand, and she sank back in her chair in a deep sleep.
Erik, too, had closed his eyes, and was dreaming happily, when he was
awakened by the brush of something light and soft, across his pillow.
Starting up, he saw that the moon was still brilliant, and in its
clearest rays stood a faint white figure, with shadowy wings
outstretched behind it.
A vapoury garment enveloped it, and the face seemed young and
beautiful.
"Oh, how wonderful! How wonderful you are!" cried Erik. "Why have I
never seen you before?"
"I am Vanda, the Spirit of the Moon," said the Angel gently. "Only to
those who are in need of help can I become visible. Your mother knows
me well. Winter and summer, I have soothed her to sleep; and to-night,
as you looked from the window, your thoughts joined mine, and I was
able to come to you. What will you ask of me?"
"Oh, Vanda, dear Vanda! Show me how to help my mother; I ask nothing
else!" cried Erik.
He jumped from his bed, and threw himself at the feet of the shadowy
Angel.
"Do you see that window?" said the Moon-Spirit, pointing to the small
panes that were now covered with a delicate tracery of glittering
frost-work. "Of what do those patterns remind you?"
[Illustration]
"Of flowers!" cried Erik. "I have often thought so. Sometimes I can
see grasses, and boughs, and roses, but _always_ lilies, because they
are so white and spotless."
The Angel smiled softly.
"To-night I shall shine upon them, and make them live," she said.
"Take what you will find upon the window sill at sunrise, and sell
them in the town. Bring the money back to your mother at night-time."
With the last words the Moon-Spirit melted into the white light,
leaving Erik with a feeling of the happiest expectation.
Long before daybreak he was awake, and his first thought was of the
wonderful ice-flowers. Would the Angel have kept her promise? What
would he see awaiting him?
As the rays of the sun shot over the fiord, he sprang out of bed and
ran to the window. There lay a bunch of beautiful white lilies,
nestling in a mass of delicate moss-like green.
"They _are_ the frost-flowers!" cried Erik, and wild with joy he
rushed into his mother's room, and held the bunch up for her to look
at.
"Look, look, mother! See what we have had given us. We shall soon have
enough money to rent the little farm you have always been longing
for!"
* * * * *
Erik's visit to the town was very successful. He sold his flowers
directly, although he had some difficulty in answering all the
questions of the townspeople, who wanted to know where he had grown
such delicate things in the middle of a severe winter. To everyone he
replied that it was a secret; and they were obliged to be contented.
He returned home in good time for his work upon the fiord, and if it
had not been for the store of silver pieces he poured into his
mother's work-box, he would almost have imagined that he had only been
dreaming.
That night, as he laid his curly head upon the pillow, his mind was
full of thoughts about the Moon-Angel. He wondered if she would appear
again, and whether she would once more leave him her gift of the white
frost-flowers.
The moon shone with silvery clearness into the garret; and as the boy
strained his eyes towards the window, the bright form slowly floated
through the bars and stretched a pale hand towards him.
"You have done well, to-day, Erik. Look to-morrow, and to-morrow, and
to-morrow, until my light has waned and faded; and every day you will
find the lilies waiting for you."
Again Erik felt the soft brush of Vanda's wings, and she disappeared
in the path of the moonbeams.
The next morning the flowers lay fresh and fair upon the window-sill,
and for days the frost-lilies were always blooming.
But each time the bunch grew smaller and smaller, until at last, when
the moon was nothing more than a thread of brightness, Erik found one
single blossom lying half drooping on the window-frame.
"Vanda's gifts have ended," thought Erik, "but she has been a good
true friend to us! We have gained enough money for my mother to put
away her iron, and take the little farmhouse by the fiord. How happy
we shall be together."
* * * * *
The winter was nearly over, and Erik and his mother had settled down
to their happy life in the farmhouse.
Frost-flowers, with delicate fantastic groupings, still bloomed upon
the window-panes; but the Moon-Angel was not there to give them her
fairy-like gifts of life and beauty.
She had gone to console other struggling workers.
THE ALPEN-ECHO.
Long, long years ago, a young girl wandering with her herd of goats
upon the Mettenalp, lost her way amidst a mountain storm, and fell
into a chasm of the rock, where she lay white and lifeless.
The terrified goats reached the valley beneath, but the young girl was
never again heard of.
The spirits of the great mountain had claimed her for an Alpen-Echo,
and every day, for hundreds of years after, she floated amongst the
snow-covered peaks and crags of the Mettenalp, answering every horn
that sounded from the hunters or cow-herds, with a soft, sweet note,
so sad and distant it was like a soul in pain, and tears came to your
eyes--you knew not why--as you listened to its exquisite music.
"Come, follow me! Follow me to my secret haunts," wailed the Echo.
"Give me my soul! Give me my soul!"--but no one through all the
centuries had ever climbed to the Echo's hiding-place.
"If _only_ I could make them understand!" sobbed the Echo, "my long
bondage would cease. The first foot that treads my prison, frees me,
and gives me rest."
* * * * *
However, all the world was too busy to listen to the poor Echo, and
she called and cried in vain through the misty ages!
* * * * *
A boy, with a long Alpen-horn in his hand, stood by a châlet far away
in the wilds of Switzerland. Every now and then he blew a few wailing
notes upon the horn--notes that echoed across the valley, up to the
snow-covered heights beyond--and he smiled as the answer floated
clearly back again.
"The echoes are talking together, to-day," he said to himself. "They
love the bright air and the sunshine;" and again he blew a long,
changing note, that died away softly into the far distance.
"_Tra-la-la-a-a_" came faintly from the opposite mountain--but to the
boy's astonishment the echo did not now cease, and fade away, as it
always had done before. It shifted from point to point; its elfin
tones ringing sweet and sad like the bugle of a Fairy Huntsman.
All that day the Echo sounded in the boy's ears, all night it
whispered amongst the mountain tops; and as soon as it became daylight
he sprang up, determined that he would climb the side of the opposite
valley, and find out the reason of the strange music.
A pale-green light tinged the sky, the mountains looked dark and
forbidding, and from the peaks above came the soft sighing of the
distant Echo.
"It is like a soul in pain," thought the boy. "I _must_ find out what
it means!" and he began to climb higher and higher, until the valley
lay far beneath him, and his home looked a little brown speck amidst a
sea of fields and pine trees.
Before him still sounded the Elfin voice, now dying into a whisper,
now ringing clear and distinct, as though close beside him--but always
with the same beseeching sadness: "Follow me! Follow me to my secret
haunts! Give me my soul! Give me my soul!" And the boy climbed on
until he reached the rocky crag which formed the summit of the
mountain.
"At last!" he cried, as he stretched out his arms to clasp the Echo's
fairy-like form that floated mistily before him ... but the Echo had
faded from his sight as he approached her; and her last words were
borne faintly towards him as she vanished into the golden glory of the
sunshine--
"At last! At last! I am at rest at last!"
* * * * *
The boy had learnt the secret of the Alpen-Echo. He had freed her soul
from its long bondage, and a few days afterwards they found him lying
with a smile upon his face on the topmost peak of the Mettenalp.
THE SCROLL IN THE MARKET PLACE.
In the pale light of the moon the sleeping town lay hushed and
noiseless. At its foot the river rolled, spanned by the curves of the
old grey stone bridge, and behind rose the giant hills, clothed with
tracts of pine and birch trees. A high wall surrounded the town, with
towers at intervals, from which gleamed the light of the watchmen's
lanterns.
All was silent on the earth and in the air, when through the deep blue
of the star-sprinkled sky a little Child-Angel winged his way from
Heaven, and hovering over the steep red roofs beneath him, folded his
wings and dropped softly into the deserted Market Place. In his hand
he held a Scroll with strange writing upon it, and crossing the Square
over the rough cobblestones, he fixed the paper to the Fountain, and
spreading his white wings, flew up again to the home from which he
came.
Next day the country people flocking into the Market Place saw to
their astonishment a track of beautiful white flowers springing up
from amongst the cobblestones, and stretching from one corner of the
Square to the Fountain.
They were star-like flowers, with bright-green leaves, and they grew
in patches--"like a child's footsteps," the women said.
A little crowd soon gathered round the paper fastened to the ancient
Fountain. On the top of the Scroll was written, very clearly--"All
those who can read the words beneath shall be rewarded generously,"
but the lines that followed were in a strange language, and in such
crabbed characters that they defied every effort to decipher them.
All day the crowd ebbed and flowed round the Fountain, while the
learned men of the town came with their dictionaries under their arms
and spectacles on nose, and sat on stools, attempting to make out the
crooked letters of the inscription.
In the end each one decided upon a different language, and the
argument became so warm between them that they had to be separated by
a party of watchmen, and conducted back again to their own houses.
Professors from the University on the other side of the mountains
journeyed over the rough roads, and brought their learning to the old
stone Fountain in the Market Place--but they, too, went away
discomfited.
No one could read the strange writing, and no one could pull down the
paper, for it appeared to be fixed to the stone by some means that
made it impossible to tear it away.
Time went on, and the snow covered up the Market Square, threw a white
mantle over the steep roofs, and buried the old gardens in its soft
deepness.
In one of the houses near the spot where the little Angel had first
touched the earth lived a poor, lonely woman. She worked all day at
some fine kind of needlework, but when, in the evenings, the sun had
set and the twilight began to fall, she would steal out for a few
minutes to breathe the fresh air. Often, though she was so wearied
with her incessant stitching, she would carry in her hand a flower
from the plants that grew in her latticed window to a neighbour's sick
child. It was a weary climb up a steep flight of stairs to the attic
where the sick child lay, but it was reward enough to the woman to see
the bright smile that lighted up the little drawn face as she laid the
flower on the counterpane.
All the summer the poor sempstress had been too busy during the
daylight, to afford time even to cross the Square to study the strange
paper on the Fountain. "If learned men cannot read it, a poor ignorant
woman like me could certainly never do so," she said to the child, and
the little girl looked up at her with tender love in her eyes.
"You are so good, you could do _anything_," she whispered, and clasped
the worn hand on which the needle-pricks had left the marks of many
long years of patient sewing. "I should like to see the paper so
much," continued the child, after a thoughtful pause. "I wish I could
walk there, but it is so long since I walked, and the snow is so deep
now," and she sighed.
"Some day, if the good God pleases, I will carry you there," said the
workwoman--and the child as she lay patiently on her little bed,
dreamt and dreamt of the mysterious paper that no one could read,
until the longing to see it became uncontrollable, and her friend the
sempstress promised that she would spare an hour the next day from her
work, and if the sun shone she would carry the invalid across the
Market Place to the old stone Fountain.
The next morning the child's face was bright with anticipation, as the
woman wrapped her in a warm shawl and carried her fragile weight down
the staircase. The cobblestones hurt the poor sempstress's feet, and
she staggered under the light burden, but she persevered, for the
child's murmurs of delight rang in her ears--
"How sweetly the sun shines! How white the snow looks! How beautiful,
how _beautiful_ it is to be alive!"
When they reached the Fountain the sun shone brightly upon the Angel's
Scroll.
The workwoman seated herself on one of the swept stone steps, still
holding the child in her arms, and they gazed long and earnestly at
the writing above them.
Gradually a smile of delight spread across both their faces. "It is
quite, _quite_ easy!" they cried together. "How is it people have been
puzzling so long?"--for as they looked the crabbed letters unrolled
before them, straightened, and arranged themselves in order, and the
Angel's message was read by the poor workwoman and the sick child.
"Love God, and live for others," said the Scroll, and a soft light
seemed to stream from it and shed a glow of happiness right into the
hearts of the two who read it. The air was warmer, the sun shone more
brightly, and just by the foot of the Fountain, pushing through the
snow, sprang one blue head of palest forget-me-not.
As the letters on the Scroll became plainer and plainer, the paper
slowly rolled up and shrunk away, until it had disappeared altogether.
The sempstress carried back the child up the steep staircase, laid her
tenderly on her bed, and hurried away to her own attic.
In her absence strange things had happened. The room was swept and
tidy, the flowers were watered, and the piece of work she had left
half done was lying finished on the broad window seat. The poor woman
looked round her in astonishment. She went downstairs to enquire if
any neighbours had prepared this surprise for her, but they only
stared at her, and told her "she must have left her wits in the Market
Place," and that "that was what came of leaving your own duties to
look after other people's."
The sempstress did not listen to their taunts, for a song of joy was
welling up in her heart--a song so sweet and true, it might have been
the echo of that sung by the angels. Never had life seemed so
beautiful to her. The ill looks of the neighbours appeared to her to
be smiles of kindness and love; their hard speeches sounded soft and
altered; the steep stairs to her room were not so steep, her attic not
so bare and desolate. Life was no longer lonely, for the song in her
heart brought her all the happiness she had ever hoped for.
The sick child, too, found the same wonderful change in all that
surrounded her. The aunt with whom she lived, who had always been so
careless and unloving, now seemed to the child to be kind and gentle.
Her aching back was less painful, her thoughts as she lay on her bed
were bright and happy. The Angel's message had brought sunshine to the
lives of the only two who could read and understand it.
* * * * *
In time the sick child went to live with the sempstress, and their
love for each other grew and strengthened, and overflowed in a
thousand little acts of kindness to all who came near them. Their room
was filled with brightness. The birds flew to perch on the window-sill
and sing in the early mornings; flowers bloomed in the cracks of the
old stonework; the sempstress sang as she worked, and whenever she
left her sewing to carry the child out into the Market Place to
breathe the fresh air she would find her work finished when she
returned.
"It was a happy day that we read the message in the Market Place," she
said to the sick child; "indeed we have been rewarded generously."
A SCRAP OF ETRUSCAN POTTERY.
Deep down in a buried Etruscan tomb there lay a little three-cornered
piece of pottery.
It had some letters on it and a beautiful man's head, and had belonged
to a King some three thousand years ago.
Its only companions were a family of moles; for everything else had
been taken out of the tomb so long ago that no one remembered anything
about it.
"What a dull life mine is," groaned the piece of pottery. "No
amusement, and no society! It's enough to make one smash oneself to
atoms!"
"Dull, but safe," replied the Mole, who never took the least notice of
the three-cornered Chip's insults. "And then, remember the dignity.
You have the whole tomb to yourself."
"Except for you," said the Chip ungraciously.
"Well, we must live somewhere," said the Mole, quite unmoved, "and I'm
sure we don't interfere. I always bring up my children to treat you
with the greatest respect, in spite of your being cr-r--br-r--. I
_should_ say, not quite so large as you used to be."
"If only you had belonged to a King," sighed the Chip, "I might have
had someone of my own class to talk to."
"I don't wish to belong to a King," said the Mole. "There's nothing I
should dislike more. I am for a Liberal Government, and no farming."
"What vulgarity!" cried the Chip.
"It's a blessing it's dark, and he can't see the children laughing,"
thought the Mole-mother, "or I don't know what would happen."
"Everything that belonged to a King should be treated with Royal
respect," continued the Chip.
"As to that, I really haven't time for it," replied the Mole; "what
with putting the children to bed, and getting them up again, and all
my work in the passages, I can't devote myself to Court life."
"If you like, you can represent the people," said the Chip. "_I_ don't
mind, only then I can't talk to you."
"You can read out Royal Decrees, and make laws," said the Mole; and to
herself she added, "It won't disturb me. I shan't take any notice of
them."
"Who's to be nobles?" said the Chip, crossly. "I'd rather not do the
thing at all, if it can't be done properly!"
"Well, I can't be people and nobles too, that's quite certain,"
remarked the Mole-mother, as she tidied up her house. "Besides, the
children are too young--they wouldn't understand."
"What's it like up above?" enquired the Chip languidly after a short
pause, for it was almost better to speak to the Mole, than to nobody.
"People still walk on two legs?"
"Why, of course," answered the Mole, "there's never any difference in
people, that _I_ can see. They're always exactly alike, except in
tempers."
The Chip was sitting upon a little stone-heap against one of the
pillars. He fondly imagined it was a Throne; and the Mole-mother, with
the utmost good nature, had never undeceived him.
As the last words were spoken, a lump of earth fell from the roof,
flattening out the stone-heap, and the Chip only escaped destruction
by rolling on one side, where he lay shaking with fright and calling
to the Mole-mother to help him. But the Mole had retired with her
family to a place of safety. She knew what was happening. The tomb was
being opened by a party of antiquarians, and in a few more minutes the
blue sky shone into the darkness, and the three-cornered piece of
pottery was lying wrapped in paper in the pocket of one of the
explorers.
* * * * *
When the Chip recovered himself, he found he was reclining on the
velvet floor of a large glass case full of Etruscan vases. Here was
the society he had been pining for all his life!
"What are Moles compared to this?" he said to himself, and quivered
with joy at the thought of the pleasures before him.
"How did that broken thing come into our Division?" enquired a Red
Dish with two handles.
"I can't imagine! The Director put him in just now," replied a Black
Jug. "It's not what we're accustomed to. Everything in here is
perfect."
The Chip lay for a moment, dumb with horror and astonishment.
"I belonged to a King," he gasped at last. "You can look at the name
written on me."
"You may have names written all over you, for all I care," said the
Dish. "You're a Chip, and no King can make you anything else"--and she
turned away haughtily.
"And to think that for all those years the Mole-mother was never once
rude to me!" thought the Chip. "She was a person of _real_ refinement.
Whatever shall I do if I have to be shut up with these ill-bred
people?" he groaned miserably.
"How the woodwork does creak!" said the Director as he came up to the
glass case, with a young lady to whom he was showing the treasures of
the Museum.
"That's the most recent discovery," he continued smiling and pointing
to the three-cornered piece of pottery--"All I found in my last
digging."
"It has a beautiful head on it," said the young lady, "I should be
quite satisfied if I could ever find anything so pretty."
"Will you have it?" said the Director of the Museum, who after all was
only a young man; looking at the young lady earnestly.
She took the despised Chip in her little hand.
"Thank you very much. It will be a great treasure," she said--and
looking up at her face, the three-cornered piece of pottery knew that
a happy life was in store for him.
* * * * *
"In spite of the rudeness of my own people, I am in the Museum after
all," remarked the Chip, as some months afterwards he hung on a
bracket on the wall of the young lady's sitting room. "In what a
superior position, too! _They_ only belong to the Director, but _I_
belong to the Director's wife!"
THE GOATS ON THE GLACIER.
CHAPTER I.
The Heif Goats lived close to the Heifen Glacier, one of the largest
in Switzerland. In fact, their Châlet, or the cavern which they
christened by that name, overhung the steepest precipice, and was
inaccessible to anyone except its proprietors.
"It is such a comfort to be secluded in these disturbed times," the
Goat-mother often remarked to her husband. "If I lived near a high
road I should never know a _moment's_ happiness. The children are so
giddy, they would be gambolling about round the very wheels of the
char-à-bancs, turning head over heels for halfpence, before I could
cry Goats-i-tivy!"
The whole glacier valley swarmed with the kin of the Goat family.
There were the bond-slaves who worked for the peasants, and the free
Goats who possessed their own caves, cultivated their ground
industriously, and lived greatly on the sandwich papers left by
tourists in the summer-time.
"Such a treat, especially the light yellow sort with printing, that
always has crumbs in it," said the Goat-mother. "It makes a delicious
meal. We generally have it on fête days."
The family of the Heif Goats consisted of the Heif-father, his wife,
and their four children, Heinrich, Lizbet, Pyto, and Lénora.
The young Goats had been brought up with some severity by their
parents, who had old-fashioned notions with regard to discipline; and
three things had been especially enjoined upon them from their
infancy. Always to speak the truth, never to mess their clean
pinafores, and last, but not least, _never_ to play with the Chamois!
"They are too wild and frivolous," the Goat-mother used to say, with a
nod of her frilled cap. "Such very long springs are in exceedingly bad
taste. The Chamois have _no_ repose of manner."
Under this system the children grew up very well-behaved. The
daughters worked in the house, the sons helped their father; and in
the evening they all descended to the Glacier to collect any remnants
of food left by the endless stream of visitors, who all through the
summer toiled up to the Eismeer, and down again to the Inn on the
other side of the valley.
These travellers were a perpetual source of interest and amusement to
the Goat family.
They could never quite make out what they were doing, but the
Heif-mother finally decided that their journeys must be some religious
or national observance.
"People would never struggle about on the ice like that--tied to each
other with ropes, too!--unless it was a painful duty," she said. "I
consider it very praiseworthy."
Sometimes the young Goats in their invisible eyrie, would go off into
shouts of merriment as a group of excursionists crawled slowly into
sight; the ladies in their short skirts and large flapping hats,
alpenstock in hand, clinging desperately to the guides as they
ascended every slippery ice-peak.
But on these occasions the Goat-mother always reproved them.
"Remember," she would say severely, "that because people are
ridiculous you shouldn't be unmannerly. They can't help their
appearance, poor things! They may think themselves quite as good as we
are."
"Well, at all events, we don't look like _that_," said Lizbet. "I am
sure you would never allow it."
The principal news from the outer world was brought to the Heif family
by a Stein-bok pedlar, who wandered about the country with his wares,
and was so popular that he was a friend of all classes, and supplied
even the Chamois with their groceries and tobacco.
He generally arrived at the Châlet on the first of every month, and
spread out his wares on the grass plot in front of the cave, while the
Goat-mother and her children walked up and down, and bargained
good-humouredly for anything they had taken a fancy to.
CHAPTER II.
It was a bright sunny day, and the Goat-mother sat with her daughters
at the door of the cavern. The Goat-father had gone off by himself to
get some provisions at a village on the opposite side of the Glacier,
and Heinrich and Pyto were digging in the fields at the back of the
Châlet; when the Stein-bok, in his well-known brown cloth coat,
appeared panting up the narrow pathway.
Throwing himself down on a stone bench, he tossed his Tyrolese hat on
to the ground, and fanned himself with his handkerchief.
"Good morning, Herr Stein-bok. You seem exhausted," said the
Goat-mother.
"I am, ma'am, and well I may be. Five miles with twenty pounds on my
back is no joke, I can assure you."
"Shall I bring you a glass of lager-beer?" enquired the Heif-mother.
"It would be acceptable, ma'am, and then I will tell you my news.
You've heard nothing of the Goat-father, have you?"
"Nothing," said the Goat-mother. "I am beginning to feel very nervous.
I never knew him to stay away two days before."
The Stein-bok looked round darkly.
"I have something to tell you," he whispered. "Prepare for bad news.
The Goat-father has been captured."
The Heif-mother gave a wild shriek, and fell back upon Lizbet, who was
peeling potatoes in the doorway.
"When--where--how--who--what?" she cried frantically. "Tell me at
once, or I shall faint away."
"Be calm, ma'am," said the Stein-bok soothingly. "I heard it from the
Chamois, who have a habit of bounding about everywhere, as you know.
Your dear husband reached the middle of the Glacier in safety,
when--being hampered by a satchel and a green cotton umbrella--he fell
in attempting to jump an ice-pinnacle, and sprained his foot so
severely that he was unable to move. Though he bleated loudly for
help, no one came except some huntsmen who were in search of Chamois.
They picked him up, and dragged him to the Inn on the other side of
the valley, where he was locked up securely in a shed, and there he is
at the present moment."
"My brave Heif in prison! He will never, never survive it!" cried the
Goat-mother, shedding tears in profusion.
"Oh yes he will, ma'am," replied the Stein-bok, "they're not going to
kill him, their idea is to take him down to the village."
"_That_ they shall never do!" cried the Heif-mother, starting up, "not
if I go myself to rescue him! Go, Lizbet, and call your brothers. We
must consult together immediately."
Lizbet darted off, and the Stein-bok continued.
"I have still something else I must let you know, ma'am. As our great
poet observes--
'Whenever green food fades away,
Some dire misfortune comes the self-same day.'
In plain words, troubles never come singly. I discovered while having
a friendly game of dominoes with the Head Chamois, that they intend to
seize upon your house next Tuesday, in the absence of the
Heif-father."
"And to-day is Friday!" shrieked the Goat-mother. "Oh! this is hard
indeed!"
[Illustration]
"Compose yourself, ma'am, and listen to my advice," said the Pedlar.
"You lock up your house, or leave me in charge with Lizbet and Lénora,
and you and the two other children start off at once to ask the help
of the Goat-king. He is a mild, humane creature, and will very likely
order out a detachment of the 'Free-will' goats to help to defend your
household."
"That is the only thing to do," said the Goat-mother mournfully. "I
certainly know the way, for of course I have always been to the yearly
Goat Assembly, but I always started three days before the meeting, and
went down the back of the mountain, over the slopes. I don't know how
I'm to manage the short cut."
"Oh, easy enough, ma'am," replied the Stein-bok; "you'll get on very
well. Don't go in goloshes, though, for they will be sure to catch on
the nails. I wouldn't wear my waterproof mantle either--too large for
a walking tour. Put on a shawl, and tie it round you."
By this time Heinrich and Pyto had hastily dressed themselves in
out-door costume, and the Goat-mother was rushing about her house,
collecting an extraordinary number of things, which the Stein-bok had
some difficulty in persuading her not to take with her.
"_Not_ sugar nippers, ma'am, I _beg_; or your large work-box, or the
mincing machine! Quite useless on a long journey; and your best cap
you won't want, I assure you."
"I thought I might perhaps wait a moment in the ante-room and put it
on before entering the presence of Royalty," bleated the Goat-mother.
"But no doubt you know best."
The luggage was at last reduced to a small leather handbag; and the
Goat-mother, after solemnly bestowing her blessing on Lizbet and
Lénora, and the door-key on the Stein-bok, set off down the garden
path with her children, upon their adventures.
CHAPTER III.
Meanwhile, the Goat-father was languishing in a dark shed attached to
the Inn on the other side of the Glacier. His bleats had failed to
attract any attention. In fact the only person who had heard him at
all, had been an old Goat-slave, who while browsing on the hillside
with a bell round his neck, had been attracted by the cries, and
creeping up to the shed, peeped through a crack to see what could be
the matter.
"Is there anyone near?" enquired the Goat-father in a whisper.
"No. There's a party in the Inn, but they are too busy eating to take
any notice of us. I am just loitering here, in case there should be
any pieces of sandwich paper flying about."
"Is there any chance of my making my escape?" enquired the
Heif-father. "Are they very watchful people?"
"Excessively so," replied the old Slave. "I've never been able to get
away for the last ten years."
The Goat-father groaned. "Then it wouldn't be possible for you to take
a message to my family?"
"Quite impossible, my dear friend, I assure you. Can't you find any
crack in the shed where you could break through?"
"There's _nothing_," cried the Goat-father. "I've searched round and
round, and the door is as strong and tight as a prison."
"Well, I'll go off and see if I can find a messenger," said the old
Slave good-naturedly. "Perhaps the old fox would manage it."
"A fox! Oh, I don't think _that_ would do," said the Heif-father. "It
mightn't be safe for my family."
"Oh, _he's_ all right," said the Slave. "He's been in captivity so
long, it's taken all the spirit out of him. He might live in a
farmyard. He's a good-natured creature, too, and I daresay he'll go to
oblige me."
The Goat-father pulled a band and buckle off his necktie, and poked it
under the door.
"Not to eat!" he whispered warningly, "but for the fox to take with
him, that my wife may know the message comes from me; and be quick
about it, my good friend, for I really am positively starving!"
"All right," said the old Goat, "I'll send the fox off, and come back
in a few minutes to bring you some stale cabbage leaves."
"A friend in need, is a friend indeed!" murmured the Goat-father; and
went to sleep that night with more hope than he had felt since the
moment of his capture.
CHAPTER IV.
"Come along, mother," cried Heinrich, grasping the Heif-mother's hand
as they left the garden before their Châlet, and commenced the
dangerous descent of the mountain.
Far below them they could see the great stretch of the dazzlingly
white Glacier, with its rents and fissures shining greenly in the
sunshine. On either side rose bare crags topped with grass, and above
all, the snowy summits of the mountains.
The first part of the journey led along a narrow pathway, which the
Goat-mother managed very successfully, but when they came to the
precipice on which rough iron spikes had been driven at long intervals
to assist the climber, her heart failed her, and in spite of her
desire to hurry, she entangled her shawl and dress so constantly on
the nails, that her children began to fear she would never reach the
level of the Glacier.
At last, however, the little party succeeded in making their way
across the Eismeer, and arrived without further mishap at the river
leading to the Goat-King's Palace.
This river flowed on the centre of the Glacier, between steep banks
of transparent ice, every now and again disappearing into some vast
cavern, where it swept with a hollow echoing under the ice-field.
"Follow me, mother," said Heinrich. "I see the entrance to the Palace
just in front of us."
The Goat-mother gathered up her skirts, and assisted by Pyto, began to
scramble down the bank to the side of the streamlet.
"Where is the boat kept?" she enquired.
"In a snowdrift close to the entrance," replied Heinrich. "Don't jump
about near the crevasses, Pyto, and I'll go and fetch it."
The boat was soon dragged from its hiding place, and Heinrich paddled
it to the spot where the Goat-mother was resting on a snow-bank.
She embarked with some nervousness, clutching desperately at her
handbag. They pushed off, and were immediately carried by the current
through the little round opening of the cave into the pale green
glistening depths of the mysterious world beyond.
CHAPTER V.
There was no need for the Heif family to row. They were swept along
past the ice walls, and in a few minutes reached the Goat-King's
landing-place. A small inlet with a flat shore, on which were
arranged two camp stools and a piece of red carpet.
"Here we are at last, dear children," said the Goat-mother. "What a
relief it is, to be sure! Is my bonnet straight, Pyto? and do pull
your blouse down. Your hair is all standing on end, Heinrich! How I
wish the Stein-bok had allowed me to bring a pocket-comb!"
The Court Porter, seated in a bee-hive chair, came forward as soon as
he saw them, to ask their business.
"The Goat-King is at home to-day till five o'clock," he said. "If you
will step this way, I will introduce you immediately."
The Goat-mother trembling in every limb--for she had never had a
private interview with Royalty before--clutched a child in each hand
and followed the Porter.
They passed down two passages, and finally reached a large ice-grotto,
with a row of windows opening on to a wide crevasse.
The room was filled with a flickering green light that yet rendered
everything distinctly visible.
On a carved maple chair on the top of a dais sat the Goat-King--a
snow-white Goat with mauve eyes and beard; completely surrounded with
cuckoo clocks, and festoons of yellow wood table-napkin rings, and
paper-cutters. The walls seemed to be covered with them, and the
pendulums of the clocks were swinging in every direction.
"The King thinks it right to patronize native art," said the
Goat-Queen, who with three of the Princesses had come forward
graciously to welcome the visitors.
"I find the striking rather trying at times, especially as they don't
all do it at once, and sometimes one cuckoo hasn't finished _ten_
before the others are at _twelve_ again."
"I wish all the works would go wrong!" muttered one of the Princesses
crossly. "An ice-cavern full of cuckoo clocks is a poor fate for one
of the Royal Family!"
"We _must_ encourage industries," said the Queen. "It is a duty of our
position. I should rather the industries were noiseless, but we can't
choose."
"Bead necklaces and Venetian glass would have been more suitable,"
said the Princess, who had been very well educated, "or even
brass-work and embroidered table-cloths. We might have draped the
cavern with _them_."
At this moment there was a violent whirring amongst the clocks; doors
flew open in all directions, and cuckoos of every size and description
darted out, shook themselves violently, and the air was filled with
such a deafening noise that the Goat-mother threw her apron over her
head, and the Goat-children buried their ears in her skirts, and clung
round her in terror.
"Merely four o'clock; nothing to make such a fuss about," said the
Goat-King. "And now, when we can hear ourselves speak, you shall tell
me what you have come for."
As the voice of the last cuckoo died away in a series of jerks, the
Goat-mother advanced, and threw herself on her knees before the Royal
Family, first spreading out her homespun apron to keep the cold off.
The King listened to her tale with interest, and his mauve eyes
sparkled.
"If this is true," he cried fiercely, "the Chamois shall be crushed!
My official pen, Princess; and a large sheet of note paper!"
"Rest yourself, petitioner, you must be tired," said the Queen, and
pointed to a row of carved and inlaid Tyrolese chairs that stood
against the wall.
The Goat-mother and her children seated themselves gratefully, and as
they did so, a burst of music floated upon the air, several tunes
struggling together for the mastery.
"Yes; it's very unpleasant, isn't it?" said the Goat-Queen, seeing the
expression of surprise and uneasiness that showed itself on the
visitors' faces. "We're obliged to have all the chairs made like that,
to encourage the trade in musical boxes. I get very tired of it, I
assure you, and I often stand up all day, just for the sake of peace
and quietness. I really _dread_ sitting down!"
Meanwhile, the Goat-King was busily writing, covering his white paws
with ink in the process; and the Queen, in a very loud voice to make
herself heard, was conversing with the Goat-mother about her household
affairs.
"Supplies are most difficult to procure in this secluded spot," she
said mournfully. "Would you believe me, that last week we dined
_every_ day off boiled Geneva newspapers and cabbage? So monotonous,
and the King gets quite angry!"
"I wish we could live on boiled cuckoos!" cried the eldest Princess,
who with her sisters was seated on a bench by the window, spinning;
the pale green light of the Glacier shining upon their white dresses,
and the little brown spinning-wheels that whirred so rapidly before
them.
"Petitioner, the order is ready," said the King at this moment, waving
a large envelope. "Go straight home, and send this paper round to all
the Goats of the neighbourhood. It is an order to the 'Free-will'
Goats, to arm, and assemble at your house for the defence of your
family, and the rescue of the Heif-father."
The Goat-mother curtsied to the ground, kissed the Queen's hand, and
retired with Heinrich and Pyto through the passages to the landing
place.
At the last moment one of the Princesses came running after the
Goat-mother, to press a cuckoo clock upon her, as a parting present
from the Queen.
The clock was large, and they had some difficulty in getting it into
the boat, but the Goat-mother did not dare to refuse it.
With the Porter's help they got off at last, and started upon the
return voyage, Heinrich and Pyto rowing their hardest; for the current
swept through the ice-caves with such force that the Goat-mother had
some difficulty in steering.
As they came out into the daylight, they saw that the sun was almost
setting, and a faint pink light tinged the snow-fields, and the tops
of the distant mountains.
"We must hurry, or we shan't be back by nightfall!" said the
Goat-mother nervously; and they landed on an ice-block, covered up the
boat again in its hiding place, and set off towards home, across the
Glacier.
CHAPTER VI.
The weary travellers almost sank with fatigue as they stumbled over
the rough ice.
In addition to the handbag, they now had the cuckoo clock, and though
Heinrich had insisted on carrying it strapped on his back like a
knapsack, his mother could see that he became more and more exhausted,
and at last she determined on taking it from him and carrying it
herself.
The difficulty was heightened by the fact that the clock continued to
tick, and the cuckoo to bound out of the door at unexpected moments,
startling the Goat-mother so, that she almost dropped it.
"It's the shaking that puts its works out," said Heinrich. "Hold on
tight, mother, and we shall get it home safely at last!"
"I wish it was at the bottom of the Glacier!" groaned the
Goat-mother, staggering along; her bonnet nearly falling off, her
shawl trailing on the snow behind her.
"Be careful, Pyto! Careless Goat!" she cried. "Test the snow-bridges
carefully with your alpenstock before you venture on them!"
But Pyto, who was young and giddy, went gamboling on; until suddenly,
without even time for a bleat of terror, he fell crashing through the
rotten ice, and disappeared from view into one of the largest
crevasses.
"Goats-i-tivy!" cried the Goat-mother. "He's gone! Oh, my darling
child, where are you?"
The cuckoo clock was thrown aside, and she ran to the edge of the
crack and peered down frantically.
"All right, mother," said a voice, sounding very faint and hollow,
"I've stuck in a hole. Let me down something, and perhaps I can
scramble out again."
"What have we got to let down?" said the Goat-mother. "Not a ball of
string amongst us! Oh, if ever we go on a journey again, I'll never,
_never_ listen to the Stein-bok."
"Well, mother, we must make the best of what we have," cried Heinrich.
"Take your shawl off and tear it into strips. We _may_ be able to make
a rope long enough to reach him--anyhow we'll try!"
The Goat-mother consented eagerly, though her shawl was one she was
particularly fond of. She snatched it off, and taking out her
scissors, she soon cut it into pieces, which Heinrich knotted one to
the other, and lowered into the crevasse.
"Can you reach it?" he cried, putting his head as far over the edge as
possible, and peering into the green depths.
The Goat-mother leant over, too; but in stooping her head her bonnet
became loosened, and slid with a loud _swish_ down the ice, darting
from side to side until it disappeared from sight in the darkness.
"Oh, what misfortunes! My child, my shawl, and my bonnet, _all_ gone
together!" she cried, wringing her hands. "Take hold of the rope, my
Pyto, and let us at all events rescue _you_!"
"All right, mother," cried the distant voice. "Don't drag me up till I
call out '_Pull_.'"
In a few minutes the Goat-mother and Heinrich, listening intently,
heard the welcome shout, and pulling both together they landed
Pyto--very much bruised and shaken, but not otherwise hurt--upon the
Glacier beside them.
"Oh, what a warning!" cried the Goat-mother, and after embracing Pyto
warmly, she turned to look for the cuckoo clock. But it had
tobogganed down a steep bank into an ice stream close by, and was
floating away in the distance, _cuckooing_ at intervals as it danced
up and down upon the water.
Two travellers who had just reached the opposite bank, paused in
astonishment to listen.
"You see," said one, "this proves what I have always told you. Nothing
is impossible to Nature. You may even hear cuckoos on a Glacier!"
CHAPTER VII.
The Goat-mother arrived at home in a pitiable state of cold and
exhaustion, but she was much cheered by finding the house in good
order, and a warm supper awaiting her, prepared by the hands of the
careful Stein-bok.
Lizbet and Lénora immediately started off with the Royal Order; which
was sealed with a large crown of red sealing wax fastening down a wisp
of mauve hair.
The next morning all the Goats of the neighbourhood collected in a
secret cavern, where they held a patriotic meeting, and discussed
their plans for the rescue and protection of the Heif-father.
Six of the strongest and most daring spirits were to start that
afternoon for the Inn on the other side of the Glacier, while the rest
of the Free-will corps would take it in turns to remain in ambush in
the Heif-goat's garden, in case the Chamois should attempt their raid
before the day they had appointed.
They all agreed that the corps should be armed to the teeth, and there
was such a demand for sandpaper that the store in the Stein-bok's pack
was soon exhausted.
"A rusty sword is all the deadlier, when it once gets in," said the
Goat-Lieutenant. "I shan't trouble myself about petty details."
The Heif-father rescue party started to cross the Glacier as soon as
it became twilight--for they did not wish to attract attention.
The Lieutenant carried a blunderbuss, but the five privates were more
lightly armed with a collection of rapiers, carving knives, daggers,
spears, and sword-sticks.
Their uniforms were varied, but each wore a mauve badge on his hat,
with the motto--"Goats and justice."
After half-an-hour's steady walking they reached the opposite
mountain, and climbing the ladders that led to the Inn, they skirted
the Châlet carefully, hiding behind the loose rocks and bushes until
they were well in the shadow of the outbuildings.
"Where are you, Herr Heif?" bleated the Lieutenant in a low tone. "We
are friends. You needn't be alarmed."
"In here," answered a cautious voice from one of the larger sheds.
"You can't get in, though--there's no hope of breaking the door open.
Iron staples and bars, and the strongest hinges. How many of you are
there?"
"Six," replied the Lieutenant. "Free-will Goats, armed to the teeth!"
"You might look at the place and see if you can find a crack
anywhere," whispered the Goat-father.
The Lieutenant and his followers walked slowly round the house,
examining it at every point; but it was all built of strong tree
trunks tanned brown by the sunshine. Suddenly his eye lighted upon a
small window. It was very high up and quite out of reach of anyone
within, but the Lieutenant thought that by standing on something he
might be able to raise himself sufficiently to reach it, and cut away
the glass.
"Is there anything inside that _you_ could stand upon?" he enquired.
There was silence, and a sound of scuffling; then the voice of the
Heif-goat: "I've been examining things, and there are two barrels. I
think I could put one on the top of the other. They _might_ reach to
the window, but it has two great wooden bars, I couldn't break
through."
"Leave that to us," said the Lieutenant, and he turned to his
followers.
"Two of you get on each other's shoulders, and then _I_ will be
assisted up. The other three mount in the same way by my side," he
said quickly. "We who are at the top will cut through the window frame
with our knives, collect the glass, and drag out the Goat-father in no
time."
This plan was carried out, and in spite of the unsteady position of
the topmost Goats, and the uncomfortable shaking of the lower ones,
the wooden bars were at length sawn through, and the glass carefully
gathered together by the Lieutenant in his felt hat.
"Steady!" cried the Lieutenant, "I'm coming down in a minute, and
you're beginning to shake about so, I can hardly keep my balance. Hi!
Do you hear me? Steady, there!"
"I can't stand this a moment longer--my legs are giving way beneath
me!" bleated the lower Goat. "I know I shall double up!"
As he spoke his feet slipped from under him, and he fell full length
upon the hillside, carrying the others with him; and there they all
lay in a confused heap, scarcely able to realize what had happened to
them.
Fortunately, however, no one was seriously hurt. They picked
themselves up and went to work again with renewed vigour.
"Climb up now, Herr Heif!" cried the Lieutenant. "Put your head out,
and gradually lower yourself. We'll stand below and catch you."
"I'm a little afraid, for I know I should fall heavy!" said the
Goat-father, in a quavering voice; but he did as he was told, and
shutting his eyes firmly, he slipped from the window-sill and fell
with a heavy _flop_ into the arms waiting to receive him.
CHAPTER VIII.
The Goat-mother had lit a comfortable fire in the Heif Châlet, and the
Goat-father's slippers were warming against the stove; when a sound of
approaching voices and footsteps made her start up in excited
expectation.
The voices came nearer and nearer. Now she could distinguish the
National Goat Song, and in another moment the door flew open, and
Herr Heif rushed in accompanied by his rescuers.
The children screamed, the Goat-mother wept tears of joy; and after a
general rejoicing, the whole party sat down to a comfortable meal,
during which the Lieutenant's health was drunk by the Goat-family
amidst loud cheering.
"I am sorry we can't invite the whole _corps_," said the Goat-mother.
"It's very cold for them outside, but the fact is I haven't sufficient
crockery. As it is, I am forced to make use of oyster shells and the
flower pot, though it's very much against my principles."
"Hush!" said the Goat-father, "there's someone knocking!"
There was indeed a hurried rapping at the door, and one of the
Watch-Goats put in his head to say that the band of Chamois were seen
advancing towards the Châlet.
The tallow candle was immediately put out, the Lieutenant and his
detachment seized their weapons, and concealed themselves behind the
door, and the Goat-mother and her children were shut up in an inner
room, where they waited in fear and trembling.
On came the Chamois with noiseless leaps, bounding into the garden,
and approaching the front door with the utmost caution. Everything
appeared to be turning out according to their expectations, and they
already saw themselves in imagination seated in the Heif-house,
revelling in the contents of the Goat-mother's store cupboard.
Their long green coats fluttered in the air, the large bunches of
edelweiss in their hats, glistened in the moonlight.
But a low, clear whistle suddenly sounded.
Each Goat sprang from his hiding place, and with a rush that took the
Chamois completely by surprise, they fell upon the invaders, and drove
them over the precipice.
It was a real triumph; for the Chamois flew down the mountain in the
wildest confusion, falling down, and darting over each other in their
hurry, and never stopping until they had reached their own haunts in
the region of the distant Eismeer.
"A glorious victory!" cried the Lieutenant, "and not a drop of blood
shed."
As to the Goat-mother, she had passed through such a moment of terror
that she had to be assisted out of the back room by three of the
guard, and revived with a cabbage leaf before she could recover
herself. She then embraced everyone all round, and the Goat-father
broached a barrel of lager-beer; while the tame Fox from the Inn (who
had appeared at the Châlet soon after the departure of the rescue
party) ran about supplying the visitors with tumblers.
The next day the Free-will Goats were disbanded, and returned to their
homes; after receiving in public the thanks of the Goat-King for their
distinguished behaviour, and a carved matchbox each "For valour in
face of the horns of the enemy."
The Stein-bok Pedlar was begged to make his home at the Heif Châlet,
but he loved his wandering life too much to settle down.
"Keep the tame Fox instead of me, ma'am," he said, as he shook hands
warmly with his friends at parting. "The poor creature is miserable in
captivity."
He then made the Goat-mother a handsome present of all his remaining
groceries, and departed once more upon his travels.
That same afternoon a special messenger from the Goat-King arrived
with an inlaid musical chair, "as a slight token of regard," for the
Heif-father.
"Well, at all events, it's better than a cuckoo clock," said the
Goat-mother resignedly, "but let me warn you seriously _never to sit
down upon it_! I know its ways, and though kindly meant, I should have
preferred paper-knives!"
THE GREAT LADY'S CHIEF-MOURNER.
It was a large white house that stood on a hill. In front stretched a
beautiful garden full of all kinds of rare flowers, on to which opened
the windows of the sitting-rooms.
Everything was handsome and stately, and the lady who owned it was
handsomer and statelier than her house.
In her velvet dress she sat under the shade of a sweeping cedar tree;
with a crowd of obsequious relations round her, trying to anticipate
her lightest wishes.
"How nice it must be to be rich," thought the little kitchen-maid as
she looked out through the trellis work that hid the kitchens at the
side of the great house. "How happy my mistress must be. How much I
should like to try just for one day what it feels like!"--and she went
back with a sigh to her work in the gloomy kitchen.
Through the latticed window she could see nothing but the paved yard,
and an old tin biscuit box that stood on the window-sill, and
contained two little green shoots sprouting up from the dark mould.
This little ugly box was the kitchen-maid's greatest treasure. Every
day she watered it and watched over it, for she had brought the seeds
from the tiny garden of her own home, and many sunny memories
clustered about them. She was always looking forward to the day when
the first blossoms would unfold, and now it really seemed that two
buds were forming on the slender stems. The little kitchen-maid smiled
with joy as she noticed them.
"I shall have flowers, too!" she said to herself hopefully.
One day, as the mistress of the house walked on the terrace by the
vegetable garden, the little kitchen-maid came past suddenly with a
basket of cabbages. She smiled and curtsied so prettily that the great
lady nodded to her kindly, and threw her a beautiful red rose she
carried in her hand.
The kitchen-maid could hardly believe her good fortune. She picked up
the flower and ran with it to her bedroom, where she put it in a
cracked jam-pot in water; and the whole room seemed full of its
fragrance--just as the little kitchen-maid's heart was all aglow with
gratitude at the kind act of the great lady.
Time passed, and the little kitchen-maid's rose withered; but the
slender plants in the tin box expanded into flower, and all the yard
seemed brighter for their white petals.
One day the mistress of the house fell ill. Doctors went and came,
crowds of relations besieged the house, an air of gloom hung over the
bright garden.
The little kitchen-maid waited anxiously for news; and tears rolled
down her face as she heard the Church bell tolling for the death of
the great lady.
A grand funeral started from the white house on the hill. Carriages
containing relations, who tried vainly to twist their faces into an
expression of the grief they were supposed to be feeling.
Wreaths of the purest hot-house flowers covered the coffin--wreaths
for which the relations had given large sums of money; but not one
woven with sorrowful care by the hand of a real lover.
The sod was patted down, the dry-eyed mourners departed; and some
square yards of bare earth were all that now belonged to the great
lady.
When everyone had left, the little kitchen-maid crept from behind some
bushes, where she had been hiding.
Her face was tear-stained, and she carried in her hand two slender
white flowers.
They were the plants grown with such loving care in the old tin box on
the window-sill; and she laid them with a sigh amongst the rich
wreaths and crosses.
"Good-bye, dear mistress! I have nothing else to bring you," she
whispered; and never dreamed that her gift had been the most beautiful
of any--her simple love and tears.
DAME FOSSIE'S CHINA DOG.
Granny Pyetangle lived in a little thatched cottage, with a garden
full of sweet-smelling, old-fashioned flowers. It was one of a long
row of other thatched cottages that bordered the village street. At
one end of this was the Inn, with a beautiful sign-board that creaked
and swayed in the wind; at the other, Dame Fossie's shop, in which
brandy-balls, ginger-snaps, balls of string, tops, cheese, tallow
candles, and many other useful and entertaining things were neatly
disposed in a small latticed window.
All Granny Pyetangle's relations were dead; and she lived quite alone
with her little grandson 'Zekiel, who had been a mingled source of
pride and worry to her, ever since he left off long-clothes and took
to a short-waisted frock with a wide frill round the neck, that
required constant attention in the way of washing and ironing.
'Zekiel's favourite place to play in was Granny Pyetangle's cottage
doorway.
A board had been put up to prevent him rolling out on to the
cobblestone pavement; and this board though very irritating to
'Zekiel in many ways--as preventing him from straying down the road
and otherwise enjoying himself--was yet not to be despised, as he soon
discovered, when he was learning to walk.
It was one of the few things he could grasp firmly, without its
immediately sliding away, doubling up, turning head over heels, or
otherwise throwing him violently down on the brick floor of the
kitchen--before he knew what had happened to him!
Granny Pyetangle frequently went to have a chat with Dame Fossie, her
large sun-bonnet shading her wrinkled old face, a handkerchief crossed
neatly over her print bodice. On these occasions 'Zekiel accompanied
his grandmother, hanging on to her skirts affectionately with one
hand, whilst he waved a crust of brown bread in the other--a crust
which he generally carried concealed about his person, for the
two-fold purpose of assisting through his teeth and amusing himself at
every convenient opportunity.
Whilst Granny Pyetangle discussed the affairs of the neighbours,
'Zekiel would sit on the floor by her side contentedly sucking his
crust, and looking with awe upon the contents of the shop. Such a
collection of good things seemed a perfect fairy-tale to him, and he
would often settle in his own mind what he would have when he grew up
and had pence to rattle about in his trousers' pocket, like Eli and
Hercules Colfox.
Like most children in short petticoats, who--contrary to the
generally-received idea--are constantly meditating on every subject
that comes under their notice; 'Zekiel had his own ideas about Granny
Pyetangle and her friend Dame Fossie.
His grandmother ought to have spent more of her money on
peppermint-cushions, tin trumpets, and whip-tops, and less on those
uninteresting household stores; and Dame Fossie should have remembered
that crusts are poor work when brandy-snaps and gingerbread are spread
before you, and ought more frequently to have bestowed a biscuit on
the round-eyed 'Zekiel, as he played with the cat, or poked pieces of
stick between the cracks of the floor when Granny Pyetangle wasn't
looking.
Though 'Zekiel had no brothers and sisters, he had a great many
friends, the chief of which were Eli and Hercules Colfox, his next
door neighbours, who were very kind and condescending to him in spite
of the dignity of their corduroy trousers.
'Zekiel had a way of ingratiating himself with everyone, and of
getting what he wanted, that inspired the slower-witted Eli and
Hercules with awe and admiration; until one day he took it into his
head to long for Dame Fossie's celebrated black and white spotted
china dog!
All the village knew this dog, for it had stood for years on a shelf
above the collection of treasures in the shop window. It was not an
ordinary china dog such as you can see in any china shop now-a-days,
but one of the old-fashioned kind, on which the designer had (like
the early masters) expended all his art upon the dignity of expression
without harassing himself with petty details.
Proudly Dame Fossie's dog looked down upon the world, sitting erect,
with his golden padlock and chain glittering in any stray gleams of
sunshine; his white coat evenly spotted with black, his long drooping
ears, neat row of carefully-painted black curls across the forehead,
and that proud smile which, though the whole village had been smitten
down before him, would still have remained unchangeable.
It was this wonderful superiority of expression that had first
attracted 'Zekiel as he played about on the floor of Dame Fossie's
parlour.
The china dog never looked at him with friendly good-fellowship, like
the other dogs of the village. It never wanted to share his crusts, or
upset him by running up against his legs just as he thought he had
mastered the difficulties of "walking like Granny!"
It was altogether a strangely attractive animal, and 'Zekiel, from the
time he could first indistinctly put a name to anything, had
christened it the "Fozzy-gog" out of compliment to its owner, Dame
Fossie--and the "Fozzy-gog" it remained to him, and to the other
children of the village, for ever after.
When 'Zekiel was nearly six years of age Granny Pyetangle called him
up to her, and asked what he would like for his birthday present.
'Zekiel sat down on a wooden stool in the chimney corner, where the
iron pot hung, and meditated deeply.
"Eli and Hercules to tea, and a Fozzy-gog to play with," he said at
last--and Granny Pyetangle smiled and said she would see what she
could do--"'Zekiel was a good lad, and deserved a treat."
'Zekiel's birthday arrived, and the moment he opened his eyes he saw
that his grandmother had redeemed her promise.
On a rush chair beside his pillow stood the very double of the
Fozzy-gog!--yellow eyes, gold collar and padlock, black spots, and all
complete!
'Zekiel sprang up, and scrambled into his clothes as quickly as
possible. He danced round Granny Pyetangle in an ecstasy of delight,
and scarcely eat any breakfast, he was in such a hurry to show his
treasure to his two friends.
As he handed it over the low hedge that separated the two gardens he
felt a proud boy, but Eli did not appear so enthusiastic as 'Zekiel
expected. He said that "chaney dogs was more for Grannies nor for
lads," and that if he had been in 'Zekiel's place he would have chosen
a fine peg-top.
Poor 'Zekiel was disappointed. The tears gathered in his eyes. He hugged
the despised china dog fondly to him, and carried it indoors to put in a
place of honour in Granny Pyetangle's oak corner-cupboard--where it
looked out proudly from behind the glass doors, in company with the best
tea-cups, a shepherdess tending a woolly lamb, two greyhounds on
stony-white cushions, and Grandfather Pyetangle's horn snuff-box.
Time passed on, and 'Zekiel's petticoats gave place to corduroy
breeches, but his devotion to the china dog never waned. He would talk
to it, and tell it all his plans and fancies, and several times he
almost persuaded himself that it wagged its tail and nodded to him. In
fact, he was quite sure that when Granny Pyetangle was ill that
winter, the china dog was conscious of the fact, and looked at him
with its yellow eyes full of compassion and sympathy.
Poor Granny Pyetangle was certainly very ill. She had suffered from
rheumatism for many years, and was sometimes almost bent double with
it; but that autumn it came on with increased violence, and 'Zekiel,
who nursed his old grandmother devotedly, had to sit by the bed-side
for hours giving her medicine, or the food a neighbour prepared for
her, just as she required it.
Granny Pyetangle was sometimes rather cross in those days, and would
scold poor 'Zekiel for "clumping in his boots" and "worritting"--but
'Zekiel was very patient.
"Sick people _is_ wearing at times," said Dame Fossie. "Come you down
to me sometimes, 'Zekiel, and I'll let you play with my chaney dog. It
isn't fit as young lads should be cooped up always!"--and when Granny
Pyetangle had a neighbour with her, 'Zekiel gladly obeyed.
One evening he ran down the village street with a smile on his face,
and a new penny in his pocket. Squire Hancock had given it to him for
holding his horse, and he was going to spend it at Dame Fossie's on a
cake for his grandmother.
Twilight was falling, yet Dame Fossie's shop was not lighted up; which
was strange, as a little oil lamp generally burned in the window as
soon as it grew dusk.
The shop door was shut and locked, and 'Zekiel ran round to the back,
and climbing on the edge of the rain-water butt, he peered over the
white dimity blind, into the silent kitchen.
No one was there, and yet Dame Fossie must be somewhere in the house,
for he distinctly heard sounds of thumping and scraping going on
upstairs.
"I'll get in through the window, and surprise her!" said 'Zekiel; and
as one of the latticed panes was unfastened he proceeded to push it
gently open, and creep in on to the table that stood just beneath it.
He unlatched the kitchen door, and stole up the ricketty staircase.
The sounds continued, but more loudly. Evidently there was a
house-cleaning going on, and 'Zekiel supposed this was why Dame Fossie
had been deaf to his repeated knockings. He lifted the latch of the
room from which the noise proceeded, and peeping cautiously in, beheld
such a strange sight that he remained rooted to the ground with
astonishment.
Dame Fossie's furniture was piled up in one corner--the oak bureau,
and the rush-bottomed chairs, inside the four-post bedstead. A pail
of water stood in the middle of the floor; and close by was the
Fozzy-gog himself, with a mop between his paws, working away with the
greatest energy.
He was about four times his ordinary size, as upright as 'Zekiel
himself, and was directing the work of several other china dogs;
amongst whom 'Zekiel immediately recognized his own property, Granny
Pyetangle's birthday present!
Everyone seemed to be too busy to notice 'Zekiel as he stood half in
the doorway. Two of the dogs were scouring the floor with a pair of
Dame Fossie's best scrubbing brushes, another was dusting the ceiling
with a feather broom; whilst several, seated round the four-post
bedstead, were polishing it with bees' wax and "elbow-grease." They
all listened to the Fozzy-gog with respectful attention, as he issued
his directions; for he was evidently a person in authority.
It did not occur to 'Zekiel to be surprised that all the dogs were
chatting together in very comprehensible Dorsetshire English. To see
them actually living, and moving about, was such an extraordinary
thing that it swallowed up every other feeling, even that of fear.
"Make haste, my good dogs! Put the furniture straight, and have all
ready. Dame Fossie will be returning soon, and we must be back on our
shelves before her key turns," said the Fozzy-gog cheerfully.
The dogs all worked with renewed energy, and before 'Zekiel could
collect his scattered wits enough to retreat or hide himself, the
room was in perfect order, and out trooped the china dogs carrying the
buckets, brooms, and brushes, they had been using.
As they caught sight of 'Zekiel, the Fozzy-gog jumped several feet
into the air.
"What! 'Zekiel spying upon us!" he screamed angrily. "Bring the lad
into the kitchen. We must examine into this," and he clattered down
the steep stairs with his mop into the wash-house.
Poor 'Zekiel followed trembling. His own dog had crept up to him, and
slipped one paw into his hand, whispering hurriedly, "Don't be
downhearted, 'Zekiel. Never contradict him, and he will forgive you in
a year or two!"
"A year or two!" thought 'Zekiel wretchedly. "And never contradict
him, indeed! when he says I was spying on him. A likely thing!" and he
clung to his friend, and dragged him in with him into the kitchen.
The Fozzy-gog sat in Dame Fossie's high-backed chair in the chimney
corner, the other china dogs grouped around him. It reminded 'Zekiel
of the stories of Kings and their Courts, and no doubt the Fozzy-gog
_was_ a king--in his own opinion at least.
He questioned 'Zekiel minutely as to how he happened to come there so
late in the evening; and to all the questions 'Zekiel answered most
truthfully.
The frown on the Fozzy-gog's face relaxed more and more--an amiable
smile began to curl the corners of his mouth, and he extended his paw
in a dignified manner towards 'Zekiel, who felt like a prisoner
reprieved.
"We forgive you, 'Zekiel! You have always been a good friend to us,
and your own dog speaks well of you," said the Fozzy-gog benignly.
"You must give us your word you will never mention what you have seen.
In the future we must be china dogs to you, and _nothing more_; but in
return for this you may ask one thing of us, and, if possible, we will
grant it."
'Zekiel hesitated. Wild possibilities of delight in the shape of
ponies and carts flitted rapidly through his mind, and then the
remembrance of Granny Pyetangle, lying ill and suffering on her bed in
the little sloping attic, drove everything else from his mind.
"I want my poor old Granny to be well again," he said, looking the
Fozzy-gog bravely in the face--"and I don't want naught else. If
you'll do that, I'll promise anything--that's to say, anything in
reason," added 'Zekiel, who prided himself on this diplomatic finish
to his sentence--which was one he had frequently heard his grandmother
make use of in moments of state and ceremony.
The Fozzy-gog appeared to be favourably impressed by 'Zekiel's
request. He rose from his chair, and waved his paw graciously.
"We dismiss this gathering!" he cried. "And you, Pyetangle"--pointing
to 'Zekiel's china dog--"take your master home, and bring him to our
meeting at the cross-roads to-morrow at midnight. Do not fail.
Farewell!"
As he spoke the Fozzy-gog shrank and stiffened. His black curls
acquired their usual glaze, and he had just time to jump upon the
shelf above the shop window, before he froze into his immovable china
self again.
The other dogs disappeared through the open kitchen casement; and
'Zekiel found himself in the village street without in the least
knowing how he got there!
It was almost dark as he ran home, but as he swung open the garden
gate, he fancied he saw something white standing exactly in the centre
of the pathway. He was sure he heard a faint barking, and a voice
whispered--"Wait a minute, 'Zekiel, I want to talk to you." 'Zekiel
retreated a step, and sat down gasping on a flower bed.
"I want to talk to you," repeated the little voice.
'Zekiel craned forward, though he was trembling with fright, and saw
in the fast gathering shadows his own china dog, standing beside
Granny Pyetangle's favourite lavender bush--though how it managed to
get there so quickly he could not imagine! He stretched out his hand
to stroke it, and started up, as instead of the cold china, he felt
the soft curls of a fluffy fur coat.
"Tell me what it all means! Oh, do'ee, now!" said 'Zekiel, almost
crying.
The china dog sat down by 'Zekiel's side, and putting one paw
affectionately on his knee, looked up in his face, with his honest
yellow eyes.
"The Fozzy-gog has commissioned me to explain all about it," he said
confidentially. "So don't be frightened, and no harm will come of it!
Twice every month (if we can escape unobserved) we take the form of
ordinary dogs, and meet together to amuse ourselves, or to work for
our owners. There are many of us in the village, and as the Fozzy-gog
is our ruler, we are bound to obey him, and to work more for old Dame
Fossie than for anybody else. Yesterday we knew she was going to visit
her married daughter. We determined to have a thorough house-cleaning,
and were just in the midst of it when you came in! It was a good thing
the Fozzy-gog happened to be in a good temper, and knew you well! We
have never before been discovered. He is a hasty temper, and it
certainly _was_ irritating!"
'Zekiel began to recover from his terror, and grasped the china dog by
the paw. He felt proud to think that his ideas about china dogs had
proved true. They were not merely "chaney"--as Eli and Hercules
contemptuously expressed it; but were really as much alive as he was
himself, after all!
"However did you manage to get out of Granny Pyetangle's cupboard?"
enquired 'Zekiel, curiously.
"Oh, I put those lazy greyhounds and the shepherdess at it," replied
the china dog. "They worked all night, and managed to undo the latch
early this afternoon. They're bound to work for me like all the
inferior china things," and he shook his head superciliously.
"And now," said 'Zekiel, "please tell me how the Fozzy-gog is going to
get my Granny well."
"Ah, that I mayn't tell you," said the china dog. "You must come with
me to-morrow night to the Dog-wood, and you will hear all about it."