Once upon a time there lived two boys who were each called Olaf. One had
golden curls clustered all over his head—curls so glittering that every
woman’s hand must touch their brightness: and to look into his eyes was
to see the gleam of blue sky through two rounded windows. In short, he
was the most beautiful child that his mother had ever seen.
The other Olaf was crowned with dark curls—blue-black as the plumage of
a crow. And to look into his eyes was to see twin stars shine up through
the brown depths of a mountain stream. In short, he was the most
beautiful child that his mother had ever seen.
Now, these two Olafs had both been born on exactly the same day, but
Olaf the Fair was the son of a mighty King, and lived in a dreadfully
big palace, and Olaf the Dark was the son of a poor shepherd, and lived
in a dreadfully small cottage.
When Olaf the Fair learned to walk, he staggered across a vast floor,
and if he tumbled, it was only to sink into the soft depths of thick
carpets. In his nursery there was nothing dangerous—not even the corners
were allowed to be sharp—so he never knew the fun of watching bruises
turn from plain brown to yellow and purple and green.
But Olaf the Dark learned to walk in quite a different way; he staggered
across an uneven floor of cold stone, in a small room, crowded with
things from whose sharp corners Pain constantly darted out at him. The
hard floor seemed to rise up and smite him, first in one place and then
in another. His mother was always kissing these places to make them
well. He liked these kisses and was proud of his scarred body,
especially of the red knees across which his seven skins were never seen
all at once. His knees generally looked as though raspberry jam had been
spread over them.
Just as you do, both Olafs hated to go to bed, but, just as you do, to
bed they both had to go. Olaf the Fair plunged his bright head into a
large pillow—so soft that it almost met across his nose, whilst the
small pillow on which Olaf the Dark laid his dark head was so bumpy and
so hard that in the morning his bruised ear would often ache, he knew
not why.
[Illustration]
Both boys loved to eat and drink. Olaf the Fair was fed on every sort of
delicious food. You should have seen his nursery table piled high with
glowing fruits, coloured cakes and trembling jellies. Chicken came every
day, and there was always jam for tea. Olaf the Dark seldom swallowed
anything more dainty than lumpy porridge, black bread and just a very
little bacon. Yet he often knew a treat, that was far greater than any
of the dainties in the palace, and this was the taste of his plain food
when he was very hungry—so hungry that his empty place was just
beginning to hurt.
His father lay all crumpled up with rheumatism, so that, almost as soon
as Olaf the Dark could walk, he had to shoulder the shepherd’s heavy
staff, whistle to the sheep-dog, and stride forth to guard his father’s
flocks.
Watching the baaing sheep as they nibbled the short grass, their bells
tinkling as they moved, the lonely little shepherd-boy shivered in the
cold, wet winds of winter and gasped in the scorching heats of summer.
He would have liked to stay at home, learning to read by the leaping
fire whilst his mother stirred the porridge, but day after day, he had
to put on his little sheepskin suit, and go out to be hurt by
hailstones, terrified by thunder or soaked in the snow.
The year Olaf the Fair was born his father died, so he became king, the
smallest king that ever was seen. His crown was heavy and made his head
ache. His sad, smiling mother said he must learn how to be a wise king.
This meant doing hundreds and hundreds of lessons. Whilst ten tutors
tried to stuff figures and facts into his head, he would stare out
through the windows wistfully watching all the different sorts of
weather. Oh, how he longed to be out in the hail, the thunder, or the
snow!
One day as Olaf the Dark sat by his sheep on the high hillside and
played on his flute to keep himself company, a huge brown mastiff came
into sight. Olaf’s faithful sheep-dog pricked his ears and low thunder
rumbled in his shaggy throat. The fierce mastiff sped along the ground,
and in the blinking of an eye the two dogs had flown at one another’s
throats. Terrified, Olaf the Dark strove with his staff to beat them
apart, but all in vain. Fortunately four horsemen, who were the little
king’s escort, now galloped up and, leaping from their saddles,
contrived to separate the foam-flecked, blood-spattered dogs.
“Well for thee, lad, we were at hand,” said the tallest of the men.
“’Twould have gone ill with thy mongrel had he harmed the king’s pet.”
“It was your dog’s fault! He attacked mine!” indignantly answered Olaf
the Dark.
“Hush!” said the man roughly. “Here is the king. Bow down to him, you
saucy lad!”
For Olaf the Fair had just ridden up. The man held the reins of the
snow-white palfrey and the little king dismounted to assure himself of
his mastiff’s safety.
Now, Olaf the Dark had never even seen a picture-book, and at the
dazzling sight of Olaf the Fair he gasped in amazement. The little king
was clad in velvet of shimmering blue, edged with shining silver and on
his head was a crown of gold.
He approached the shepherd-boy, and the two Olafs, who were of exactly
the same size, stared long at one another.
“I’m glad your dog is not harmed. How long have you had him?” said the
king. “Wolf was only given to me yesterday.”
“Sentry is my father’s,” answered the shepherd. “He had him before I was
born.”
“How old are you?” asked the king.
“I was seven years yesterday,” answered the shepherd.
“Were you? That’s funny!” exclaimed the king. “Why I had my seventh
birthday yesterday, too. But, who is with you? Surely you aren’t allowed
to stay out by yourself, are you?”
“I _have_ to stay out,” replied the shepherd. “I should like to go
home.”
“You’d like to go home? Funny! Why, I’d give anything to be allowed to
sit on that silvery frost! Have you been playing with those nice woolly
sheep for long? What pretty bells they’ve got! And wherever did you get
that splendid crook’d staff? I’d like to have one just like that,”
chattered the little king.
“Sire,” broke in the tall man with a low bow. “We must return home. His
Excellency your Tutor-in-Chief said that only one hour could be spared
from your Majesty’s studies to-day.”
Olaf the Fair stamped his foot.
“Oh, bother!” he cried. “I can’t bear to go in to yawny lessons! I want
to stay out in the shininess. I say, Boy, when have you got to go home
and do lessons?”
“Don’t do any lessons,” grunted Olaf the Dark.
“You don’t do any lessons?” exclaimed Olaf the Fair. “Oh, you _are_ a
lucky one! How long will you stay out?”
“Till it gets dark. The sheep must graze till then.”
“Till it gets dark? Oo-oo-oo-ee! Lovely! I’ve never been out in the
night. I would like to see how the stars get there. Have you ever seen
one just pricking through the blackness? But, where’s your coat? ’Twill
surely be cold before ’tis dark.”
“Don’t have a coat.”
“Don’t you wear anything but just that one dead sheep? It must be
beautifully comfortable. My clothes are so hot and heavy,” said the
king, tugging at his rich robes.
“Sire?” pleaded the attendant.
“All right, I’m coming,” said Olaf the Fair, and reluctantly mounting
his palfrey, he turned its arched neck towards the distant palace.
“Good-bye, Boy. Wish I could stay and play with you and your sheep.”
Wistfully Olaf the Dark gazed after the gay figure of the king
disappearing into the rising mists, and as he rode away, Olaf the Fair
turned his head, weary with the weight of his crown, and stared long at
the solitary figure of the sturdy little shepherd. Disconsolately, he
listened to the tinkling bells till they died away in the distance.
Deep in thought, his forgotten flute on the grass, the shepherd-boy sat
on. Hours passed. The sun sank in flaming glories of orange and gold.
Dusk thickened into darkness and heavy drops of rain fell coldly on his
bare head. Still pondering, Olaf the Dark at last rose and wearily drove
his drowsy sheep towards home.
He sat down to his supper. Silently he spooned his burnt porridge and
gnawed at his crust of black bread.
“What’s come to thee, son?” asked his mother. “I miss the gabble of thy
tongue.”
“I’ve seen the king, mother,” said Olaf, and he told her the story of
the dog fight.
“Seen his small majesty, have you? To think of it! Born the very same
day as you, he was. Be you two boys much of a size?”
“Yes, he’s no taller nor I and I guess I’m the stronger. But oh, mother,
the lovely horse he was riding, and the clothes he had on him, and the
glittering crown on his head! ’Twas as though he had caught rays from
the sun itself! Oh, mother, I’d like to be a king the same as him, and
ride around in coloured clothes, nor need to mind no silly sheep.”
“Is it wanting to be a king you are, Olaf?” laughed his mother. “Sure,
there’s no contentment under the sun. But I’m thinking a good shepherd’s
better nor a bad king, and they’re saying to be a good king’s no easy
calling—subjects being more unaccountable troublesome than sheep
themselves. Anyways, you two lads have the same God to serve, and sure
you can serve Him from a cottage just as easy as from a palace. To be a
good shepherd’s a proud thing, I’m thinking, and as for the rheumatics,
they enters the joints be you high or be you low.”
But Olaf the Dark was not to be consoled. For the first time he noticed
the shabbiness of his sheepskin suit, and the smallness of the cottage.
Discontentedly he looked around.
“What would the king’s palace be like?” he asked.
“Oh!” said his mother. “They do say it be all marble and gold with
thousands of lights a-twinkling from the ceiling, and I’ve heard as the
wee king sleeps in a bed that’s bigger nor this room and the roof of
it’s of gold and there be curtains to it.”
Olaf the Dark blinked.
“Oo-oo-oo-ee!” he sighed, as though sucking the sweetest of sweets.
* * * * *
Now, that same evening, when bedtime came, Olaf the Fair pressed his
face against the cold bars of the window and stared wistfully at the
spangled blue-blackness outside. He thought with envy of the
shepherd-boy out there all alone on the hidden hill. For the little king
yearned to go out while darkness was spread over the earth. How
mysterious the world looked! What, he wondered, happened to all the
ordinary daylight things during the night? If he were outside would he
be able to see his shadow and what would the flowers and the trees be
doing?
After he had climbed into his high, soft, golden bed, the queen came in
to say good night.
“Oh, mother!” he said, snuggling into her white arms, “I’ve done such a
dreadful, dreadful lot of lessons to-day.”
“Poor little Olaf,” said the Queen, kissing her son.
“Oh, mother,” the little king continued, “I saw such a nice boy to-day
out on the hill. And isn’t he lucky? He doesn’t do any lessons at all,
and he’s allowed to stay out by himself with nothing but a lot of sheep.
Mayn’t I have some nice woolly sheep to play with, mother?”
“Sheep aren’t toys, Olaf. They’re duties, like lessons. The boy must
have been a shepherd.”
“Duties, are they, mother? Then I’d much rather do sheep than do
lessons. But was he a real shepherd, that boy? Why, he’s only my age!
Oh, mother, can’t I be a shepherd?”
“You are a sort of shepherd, Olaf. But you’ve got human beings to look
after instead of animals. I want you to be so good a king that I shall
be proud that you were my baby. That’s why you have to work so hard.”
“I do try, mother. But I wish I was a proper out-of-doors shepherd. And
please, mother, must I always wear my crown? It is so heavy, and it
bites my forehead.”
“Yes, darling. I am afraid you must. Your crown is to remind you that
you are a king and not your own master. Now go to sleep and dream that
you are a shepherd and have to shiver out of doors in all the cold and
wet. You’d soon be glad to wake up in your own bed.”
But Olaf the Fair was not to be persuaded.
“I’d love to be out in the rain!” he exclaimed. “I hate indoors, and I’d
like to be dressed in a dead sheep.”
Days, weeks, months passed away, and Olaf the Fair and Olaf the Dark
still continued to think of one another. More and more did the little
king weary of the long lessons which kept him indoors and of all the
solemn attendants who surrounded him. More and more did he pine to be
free and wander at will over the hillside. Above all he yearned to go
out into the night and feel the darkness. When he looked up at the sad,
solemn moon, he would thrill with a strange, unaccountable excitement.
The moon! She flooded the earth with a queer, transforming light that
drew him out of all sleepiness and made his soul shiver till his body
became too excited to lie still. Passionately he envied the shepherd-boy
out there in the darkness, playing his flute beneath the pine trees. One
night the longing grew too strong, and, as he tossed on his golden bed,
it flashed into his memory that the bars of the window in the great hall
were wide enough apart to allow his body to squeeze through them. (This
was long before even kings had glass in their windows.)
He sat upright. The leaves of the trees just outside rustled
mysteriously and tiny twigs tapped against the bars, beckoning him out
of bed. Yes, his mind was made up. He was going to escape and run out
into the strange silvery light that the moon was making. With hammering
heart he slid from his high bed and tiptoed towards the door. There was
a low growl, and the mastiff raised his huge head. Oh, heavens, if he
were to bark, or follow, he would surely arouse the man who slept just
outside across the door! But, fortunately, Olaf remembered the bone he
was to give his dog next morning, and in a moment busy sounds of
scrunching and gulping filled the room.
One danger passed. But now Olaf must step across the body of the man
who, with a dagger in his mouth, guarded his royal master’s door.
Supposing the man were awake. Then the adventure would become impossible
and Olaf would have to return to the dreariness of trying to go to
sleep. Trembling, he turned the handle and pulled the door towards him.
Regular breathing reassured him. The man was fast asleep. Softly as snow
falls on snow, the boy stepped across the huge form and hastened on
swift feet down the long, empty corridor. Shafts of moonlight gleamed
through the round windows and shone on the armour stacked against the
wall. How strange the palace seemed in this light!
A little scared, Olaf slipped down the wide, shallow steps of the huge
staircase. Now he was in the great hall. The night wind blew in and the
tapestries trembled on the walls. Olaf shivered with something that was
more than cold. High up in the sky a pale moon raced through white
trailing clouds. She looked as if she were being pursued.
[Illustration: “THE TWO BOYS STARED AT ONE ANOTHER”]
“I must get out! I must get out!” said Olaf aloud. “I must get out and
run after her.”
He reached the window and seized the bars. Oh, heavens, what was this?
Consternation crushed into his heart, for crisscross along the iron bars
there now ran new horizontal ones. Alas! alas! he had adventured too
late. Impossible now to squeeze through to liberty. His palace was a
prison. In vain he tugged at the cruel bars. They could not even be
shaken. He stamped his foot. Strong sobs shook his small body; tears
scalded his eyes.
But what was this he saw through the dancing blur of his tears? Exactly
opposite, a face stared through at him! The moon had raced behind a
cloud and her light was dim. Was he looking into a mirror instead of out
of doors? No, this pale face was surrounded with dark hair, and now his
fingers felt the touch of other warm fingers. Yes, other hands were
clasping the forbidding bars, and sobs that were not his own fell on his
ear. The moon again sailed forth into the open sky and clearly Olaf the
Fair recognised the face of the shepherd-boy, the constant thought of
whom had so much quickened his discontent. Yes, it was Olaf the Dark,
who, shivering from the cold, stood outside and wistfully gazed at the
warmth and wealth within.
The one craning in, the other craning out, the two boys stared at one
another.
“Why are you crying, Boy?” asked Olaf the Fair.
“Because I can’t get in,” sobbed the little shepherd. “Why are you
crying?”
“Because I can’t get out,” sobbed the little king.
“Do you want to get _in_?” }
} shrilled two surprised voices.
“Do you want to get _out_?” }
“Funny!” they both said, and their next sobs rode up on the top of two
little laughs and their tears fell into the cracks made by their smiles.
Yes, they both laughed and the laughter stretched their hearts, so that
Understanding could enter in and open the door to Contentment. Some
people can only laugh at jokes. If you can laugh at your life even while
it makes you cry, you have learnt more than a thousand schoolroom
lessons can teach you, and your face will be safe from ever growing ugly
through sullenness.
“Why ever do you want to get in here?” asked the king.
“Because it looks so lovely—all gorgeous and glowing. I want to know
what it feels like inside. I’m so cold—I’m quite blue and I mustn’t go
home till morning breaks. I thought I’d squeeze through the bars and
‘catch warm’ and then go back to my sheep. There they are. Do you hear
their bells? But why ever do you want to get out?”
“Because I hate the palace. Ugh! It’s a great big prison. Besides, I
want to feel the moonlight, dance in it, alone and free, and I want to
be cold. I’ve never been cold.”
“Wish I were you!” said both boys at once, smiling as they sighed.
“Where’s your lovely golden crown?” asked Olaf the Dark. “Don’t you
always wear it?”
“Oh, no. I don’t sleep in it. I hang it on its peg. I hate it!”
“Oh, I did want to try it on.”
“You wouldn’t like it. It makes my head ache. It’s so heavy. I’d much
rather have a staff like that crooked one of yours.”
“It’s awfully heavy,” sighed the shepherd.
“Heavy?” exclaimed Olaf the Fair. “I don’t see how a heavy thing in your
hand could matter. Push it through. I want to hold it.”
“Fetch me your crown, then, and we’ll exchange.”
Olaf the Fair knew that it was dangerous to return to his room to fetch
the crown. Supposing the mastiff should bark and awaken the man. But he
longed to handle the shepherd’s staff.
“All right, I’ll fetch it,” he said and tiptoed up the stairs.
Stealthily he stepped across the sleeping man, and the dog, recognising
his master’s scent, made no sound. Olaf seized the crown and hastened
back to the moon-flooded window.
“Here it is,” he said, pushing the crown through the bars that were just
wide enough to let it through. “Try it on, and give me your staff.”
Exultantly, the shepherd placed the gleaming crown on his dark head
while the king grabbed at the tall crook.
“It isn’t a bit heavy! I can’t feel it!” they both exclaimed.
Then for a few minutes they chattered, comparing one another’s days: the
little king complaining of confinement and of being always in a crowd,
the little shepherd complaining of having to stay out of doors and be
all alone.
“Mother says I am the servant of my subjects,” said the king. “And oh,
I’ve got such an awful lot of them! I’d far rather be the master of
sheep, as you are.”
“I’m not their master,” replied the shepherd. “I’m no better than their
slave. Father says so. Besides, they’re really yours. They’ve all got
little crowns stamped on their backs.”
“Have they? That’s funny! Why, my sceptre’s the shape of a shepherd’s
crook.”
As they talked, Olaf the Dark felt the crown beginning to eat into his
forehead. Heavier and heavier it grew until his brows ached and his head
drooped. Meanwhile, in Olaf the Fair’s hand the staff which had seemed
so light grew heavier and heavier. Surely it must be made of lead, he
thought, and at last with a sigh he changed it into his other arm. At
the same moment, with a groan, the shepherd tore the crown from his
head.
“Phew! it _is_ a weight! How can you wear it all day?” he said, pushing
it back through the bars.
“Phew! it _is_ a weight,” said the king, poking the staff through the
bars. “I can’t think how you can carry it all day.”
“Funny,” they both said, and they laughed quite loud; the king, feeling
proud of his head that could carry so heavy a weight, and the shepherd
feeling proud of his right arm, grown strong from carrying so heavy a
staff.
“The dawn breaks,” he said. “I must return to my sheep.”
“Come again,” cried the king. “Come again and talk to me.”
So once in every year the little shepherd returned to the palace walls
and through the bars the boys talked long and eagerly. The king always
told the shepherd how stuffy it was within, and the shepherd always told
the king how cold it was outside, and during the rest of the year,
whenever the king’s discontentment grew, he remembered the weeping boy
who had tried so hard to get _in_. And whenever the shepherd wearied of
his lot, he remembered the boy who wept because he could not get _out_.
The king knew that the shepherd never forgot the heaviness of a king’s
crown, and the shepherd knew that the king never forgot the heaviness of
a shepherd’s staff, and thus each was braced to bear his own burden; for
it is a fact that our burdens are only unendurable when no one
understands how heavy is their weight.
These two boys grew into men. Sorrows they had—as all men have, yet to
each was given much happiness, for the one was a good king and the other
a good shepherd. Far and wide Olaf the Fair was famed as the “Shepherd
of all his People,” and Olaf the Dark, who guarded the royal sheep, was
called the “King of all Shepherds.”