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THE FLOWER PRINCESS
* * * * *
By Abbie Farwell Brown
THE FLOWER PRINCESS. Illustrated. Sq. 12mo, $1.00.
THE CURIOUS BOOK OF BIRDS. Illustrated. Square
12mo, $1.10, _net_. Postpaid, $1.21.
A POCKETFUL OF POSIES. Illustrated. 12mo, $1.00,
_net_. Postpaid, $1.09.
IN THE DAYS OF GIANTS. Illustrated. 12mo, $1.10,
_net_. Postpaid, $1.21. _School edition_, 50
cents, _net_, postpaid.
THE BOOK OF SAINTS AND FRIENDLY BEASTS.
Illustrated, 12mo, $1.25.
THE LONESOMEST DOLL. Illustrated. Sq. 12mo, 85
cents, _net_. Postpaid, 95 cents.
HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN & CO.
BOSTON AND NEW YORK
* * * * *
THE FLOWER PRINCESS
[Illustration: LET HIM PROVE IT]
[Illustration]
THE FLOWER PRINCESS
by
ABBIE FARWELL BROWN
Boston and New York
Houghton Mifflin and Company
The Riverside Press Cambridge
1904
Copyright 1904 by Abbie Farwell Brown
All Rights Reserved
Published September, 1904
_Oh, give me for a little space
To see with childlike eyes
This curious world, our dwelling-place
Of wonder and surprise. . . ._
_The long, long road from Day to Night
Winds on through constant change,
Whereon one hazards with delight
Adventures new and strange;_
_The wonders of the earth and sky!
The magic of the sea!
The mysteries of beast and fly,
Of bird and flower and tree!_
_One feels the breath of holy things
Unseen along the road,
The whispering of angel wings,
The neighboring of Good._
_And Beauty must be good and true,
One battles for her sake;
But Wickedness is foul to view,
So one cannot mistake. . . ._
_Ah, give me with the childlike sight
The simple tongue and clear
Wherewith to read the vision right
Unto a childish ear._
Acknowledgments are due the publishers of _The
Churchman_ for permission to reprint "The Flower
Princess" and "The Little Friend;" also to the
_Brown Book_ of Boston for permission to use "The
Ten Blowers," which first appeared in that
magazine.
CONTENTS
THE FLOWER PRINCESS 1
THE LITTLE FRIEND 45
THE MERMAID'S CHILD 67
THE TEN BLOWERS 103
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
LET HIM PROVE IT (page 31) _Frontispiece_
THE PRINCESS FLEURETTE 10
UNTIL SHE CLAPPED HER HANDS FOR JOY 18
UNTIL HELP COMES 56
YOU WILL BRING HIM BACK TO ME? 86
ONE MORE BLOW FOR OUR KING 124
THE FLOWER PRINCESS
I
ONCE upon a time there was a beautiful Princess named Fleurette, who
lived in a white marble palace on the top of a high hill. The Princess
Fleurette was very fond of flowers, and all around the palace, from the
very gates thereof, a fair garden, full of all kinds of wonderful
plants, sloped down to the foot of the hill, where it was snugly
inclosed with a high marble wall. Thus the hill was like a great nosegay
rising up in the midst of the land, sending out sweet odors to perfume
the air for miles, bright with color in the sunshine, and musical with
the chorus of birds and the hum of millions of bees.
One part of the garden was laid out in walks and avenues, with little
vine-clad bowers here and there, where the Princess could sit and read,
or lie and dream. There were fountains and statues among the trees, and
everything grand and stately to make a garden beautiful. Another part of
the garden was left wild and tangled, like a forest. Here all the shyest
flowers grew in their own wild way; and here ran a little brook,
gurgling over the pebbles in a race to the foot of the hill. There never
was seen a more complete and beautiful garden than this of the Princess
Fleurette.
Now the fame of the Princess's beauty, like the fragrance of her garden,
had been wafted a long way, and many persons came to prove it. A
continual procession of princes from lands near and far traveled the
long road that wound from the foot of the hill up and up and up to the
entrance of the palace. They came upon their noble steeds, with gold and
jeweled harness most gorgeous to see, riding curiously up amid the
flowers, whose perfume filled their hearts with happiness and hope. The
further they rode the more they longed to tarry forever in this fair
place. And when each one at last dismounted at the palace gate, and,
going into the great hall, saw the Princess herself, more fair than any
flower, sitting on her golden throne, he invariably fell upon his knees
without delay, and begged her to let him be her very ownest Prince.
But the Princess always smiled mischievously and shook her head,
saying,--
"I have no mind to exchange hearts, save with him who can find mine,
where it is hidden among my flowers. Guess me my favorite flower, dear
Prince, and I am yours."
This she said to every prince in turn. She did not greatly care to have
any prince for her very ownest own, for she was happy enough among her
flowers without one. But the Prince, whoever he might be, when he heard
her strange words, would go out eagerly into the garden and wander,
wander long among the flowers, searching to find the sweetest and most
beautiful, which must be his lady's favorite. And, of course, he
selected his own favorite, whatever that was. It might be that he would
choose a great, wonderful rose. At the proper time he would kneel and
present it to the Princess, saying confidently,--
"O fair Princess, surely I have found the flower of your heart. See the
beautiful rose! Give it then to me to wear always, as your very ownest
Prince."
But the Princess, glancing at the rose, would shake her head and say,--
"Nay! I love the roses, too. But my heart is not there, O Prince. You
are not to be my lord, or you would have chosen better."
Then she would retire into her chamber, to be no more seen while that
Prince remained in the palace. Presently he would depart, riding
sorrowfully down the hill on his gorgeous steed, amid the laughing
flowers. And the Princess would be left to enjoy her garden in peace
until the next prince should arrive.
It might be that this one would guess the glorious nodding poppy to be
his lady's choice. But he would be no nearer than the other. A later
comer would perhaps choose a gay tulip; another a fair and quiet lily;
still another earnest soul would select the passion-flower, noble and
mysterious. But at all of these the Princess shook her head and denied
them. There had never yet come a prince to the hill who found her
heart's true flower. And the Princess lived on among her posies, very
happy and very content, growing fairer and fairer, sweeter and sweeter,
with their bloom upon her cheek and their fragrance in her breath. There
never was seen a more beautiful princess than Fleurette.
Now the Princess loved to rise very early in the morning, before any of
her people were awake, and to steal down by a secret staircase into the
garden while it was yet bright with dew and newly wakened happiness. She
loved to put on a gown of coarse green stuff, wherein she herself looked
like a dainty pink and white flower in its sheath, and with a little
trowel to dig in the fragrant mould at the roots of her plants, or train
the vines with her slender fingers.
No one suspected that she did this, and she would not have had them
suspect it for the world. For if the palace people had known, they
would have followed and annoyed her with attentions and suggestions.
They would have brought her gloves to protect her pretty hands, and a
veil, and parasol, and a rug upon which to kneel--if kneel she
must--while weeding the flower-beds. Indeed, they would scarcely have
allowed her to do anything at all. For were there not gardeners to
attend to all this; and why should she bother herself to do anything but
enjoy the blossoms when they were picked for her? They did not know,
poor things, that the greatest joy in a flower is to watch and help it
grow from a funny little seed into a leaf, then a tall green stalk, then
a waking bud, until finally it keeps the promise of its first sprouting,
and becomes a blossom. They did not guess that the happiest hours of the
Princess's life were those which she spent in the early morning tending
her flower-babies, while her fond courtiers, and even the curious
princes on their way to woo her, were still wasting the best part of the
day on lazy pillows. Many a time the Gardener declared that a fairy must
tend the royal flowers, so wonderfully did they flourish, free from
weed or worm or withering leaf. It even seemed to him sometimes that he
could trace a delicate perfumed touch which had blessed their leaves
before his coming. When he told this to Fleurette she only smiled
sweetly at him. But in her heart she laughed; for she was a merry
Princess.
One beautiful morning the Princess arose as usual, soon after sunrise,
and, putting on her green flower-gown, stole down the secret staircase
into the garden. There it lay, all fresh and wonderful, sparkling with
diamond dewdrops. The Princess Fleurette walked up and down the paths,
smiling at the blossoms, which held up their pretty faces and seemed to
smile back at her, as if she were another flower. Sometimes she kneeled
down on her royal knees in the gravel, bending over to kiss the flowers
with her red lips. Sometimes she paused to punish a greedy worm, or a
rude weed which had crowded in among the precious roots. Sometimes with
her little golden scissors she snipped off a withered leaf or a faded
flower of yesterday. Up and down the paths she passed, singing happily
under her breath, but seldom plucking a flower; for she loved best to
see them growing on their green stalks.
[Illustration: THE PRINCESS FLEURETTE]
She came at last to a little summer-house, up which climbed
morning-glories, blue and pink and white--fairy flowers of early
morning, which few of her people ever saw, because they rose so late.
For by the time those lazy folk were abroad, the best part of the day
was spent; and the little morning-glories, having lived it happily, were
ready for their rest. They drowsed and nodded and curled up tight into a
long sleep, in which they missed nothing at all of the later day.
When Fleurette spied the morning-glories she clapped her little hands,
and, running up to the arbor, danced about on her tiptoes, whispering,--
"Good-morning, little dears! Good-morning, my beautiful ones. How fresh
and sweet and fair you are!" And, plucking a single blossom, a cup of
the frailest pink, she placed it in her yellow hair, her only
ornament. Then she danced toward the little arbor, for it was her
favorite early-morning bower. But when she came to the door, instead of
entering, she started back with a scream. For through the morning-glory
vines two bright eyes were peering at her.
"Peek-a-boo!" said a merry voice. And out stepped a lad with a smiling,
handsome face. He was dressed all in green. By his side hung a sword,
and over his shoulder he bore a little lute, such as minstrels use.
"Good-morning, merry maiden," he said, doffing his cap and bowing very
low. "You, too, love flowers in the early morning. We have good taste,
we two, alone of all this place, it seems."
"You are not of this place. How came you here?" asked the Princess,
stepping back and frowning somewhat. "Do you not know that this is the
garden of a Princess, who allows no one to visit it between dusk and the
third hour after sunrise?"
"Ah!" cried the youth, with a merry laugh. "That I learned yesterday
down below there in the village. And a foolish law it is. If the
Princess knows no better than to forbid the sight of her garden when it
is most beautiful, then the Princess deserves to be disobeyed. And for
that matter, pretty maiden, are not you, too, a trespasser at this early
hour? Aha! Oho!" The lad laughed, teasingly, shaking his finger at her.
The Princess bit her lip to keep from laughing. But she said as sternly
as she could: "You are rude, Sir Greencoat. I am one of the best friends
the Princess has. She allows me to come here at this hour, alone of all
the world."
"Ah, share the right with me, dear maiden, share it with me!" exclaimed
the Stranger. "Let me play with you here in the garden early in the
morning. Do not tell her of my fault; but let me repeat it again, and
yet again, while I remain in this land."
The Princess hesitated, then answered him with a question. "You are then
of another country? You are soon to go away?"
"Yes, I am of a far country. My name is Joyeuse, and I am a merry
fellow,--a traveler, a minstrel, a swordsman, an herb-gatherer. I have
earned my bread in many ways. I was passing through this country when
the fragrance of this wondrous garden met my flower-loving nose, guiding
me hither. Ah, how beautiful it is! Because I wished to see it at its
best in early morning I stole through the gates at sundown, and spent
the night in yonder little arbor. I have been wandering ever since among
the flowers, until I heard your voice singing. Then I stole back here to
hide, for I was too happy to risk being discovered and sent away."
"You are a bold, bad fellow, Joyeuse," said Fleurette, laughing; "and I
have a mind to tell the Princess about you and your wanderings."
"Would she be so very angry?" asked the Stranger. "I will not pluck a
single bud. I love them all too dearly, just as you do, dear maiden, for
I have watched you. Ay, I could almost tell which is your favorite
flower--"
"Nay, that you cannot do," said the Princess hastily. "No one knows
that."
"Aha!" cried the lad. "You make a secret of it, even as does your
mistress, the Princess Fleurette. I have heard how she will choose for
her Prince only him who finds the flower which holds her heart. I had
thought one time to find that flower, and become her Prince."
"You!" cried the Princess, starting with surprise.
"Ay, why not? I could fight for her, and defend her with my life, if
need be. I could sing and play to make her merry. I could teach her many
things to make her wise. I am skilled in herbs and lotions, and I could
keep her people in health and happiness. Moreover, I love flowers as
well as she,--better, since I love them at their best in this early
morning: even as you love them, fair maiden. I should not make so poor a
prince for this garden. But now that I have seen you, little flower, I
have no longing to be a prince. I would not win the Princess if I
might. For you must be fairer than she--as you are fairer even than the
flowers, your sisters. Ah, I have an idea! I believe that _you_ are that
very flower, the fairest one, whereon the Princess has set her heart.
Tell me, is it not so?"
"Indeed no!" cried the Princess, turning very pink at his flattery. "How
foolishly you speak! But I must hasten back to the palace, or we shall
be discovered and some one will be punished."
"And shall I see you among the maidens of the Princess when I present
myself before her?" asked Joyeuse eagerly.
"Oh, you must not do that!" exclaimed Fleurette. "You must not try to
see the Princess to-day. This is a bad time. Perhaps to-morrow--" She
hesitated.
"But you will come again to the garden?" he begged.
She shook her head. "No, not to-day, Joyeuse."
"Then to-morrow you will come? Promise that you will be here to-morrow
morning early, to play with me for a little while?" he persisted.
The Princess laughed a silvery little laugh. "Who knows whom you may
find if you are in the garden again to-morrow morning early." And
without another word she slipped away before Joyeuse could tell which
way she went. For she knew every turning of the paths and all the
windings between the hedges, which were puzzling to strangers.
II
The next morning at the same hour Joyeuse was wandering through the
paths of the garden, seeking his flower-maiden. He looked for her first
near the arbor of morning-glories, but Fleurette was not there. He had
to search far and wide before he found her at last in quite another part
of the garden, among the lilies. She wore a white lily in her yellow
locks.
"Ah!" cried Joyeuse, when he spied her, "it is a lily to-day. But
yesterday I thought I guessed your favorite flower. Now I find that I
was wrong. Surely, this is your choice. So fair, so pure,--a Princess
herself could choose no better."
Fleurette smiled brightly at him, shaking her hair from side to side in
a golden shower. "One cannot so easily read my thoughts as he may
suppose," she cried saucily.
"Dear maiden," said Joyeuse, coming nearer and taking her hand, "I have
no wonderful garden like this where I can invite you to dwell as its
little princess. But come with me, and we will make a tiny one of our
very own, where no one shall forbid us at any hour, and where we will
play at being Prince and Princess, as happy as two butterflies."
But Fleurette shook her head and said: "No, I can never leave the garden
and my Princess. She could not live without me. I shall dwell here
always and always, so long as the flowers and I are a-blooming."
[Illustration: UNTIL SHE CLAPPED HER HANDS FOR JOY]
"Then I, too, must live here always and always!" declared Joyeuse.
"Perhaps the Princess will take me for her minstrel, or her soldier, or
her man of medicine,--anything that will keep me near you, so that we
can play together here in the garden. Would that please you, little
flower?"
Fleurette looked thoughtful. "I should be sorry to have you go," she
said; "you love the flowers so dearly, it would be a pity."
"Yes, indeed I love them!" cried Joyeuse. "Let us then go to the
Princess and ask her to keep me in her service."
The Princess looked long at Joyeuse, and at last she said: "How do I
know what manner of minstrel you are? I cannot take you to her without
some promise of your skill, for she is a Princess who cares only for the
best. Come, let us go into the wilder part of the garden, where no one
can hear us, and I will listen to your music."
So they went into a wild part of the garden, and sat down under a tree
beside the little brook. And there he played and sang for her such sweet
and beautiful music that she clapped her hands for joy. And when he had
finished he said,--
"Well, dear maiden, do you think I am worthy to be your lady's minstrel?
Have I the skill to make her happy?"
"Truly, Joyeuse, you have made _me_ very happy, and you are a Prince of
Minstrels," she answered. "Yet--I cannot tell. That is not enough. But
hark! I hear the chapel bell. I must hasten back to the palace.
To-morrow I will come again and listen to another song. Meanwhile do not
try to see the Princess."
"I care not for the Princess, I," he called after her, "so long as I may
see you, little flower!" And for an answer her laughter came back to him
over the flowers.
So that day went by; and early the next morning Joyeuse took his lute
and sought the flower-maiden in the garden. This time he sought her long
and long before he found her among the roses. There was a crimson rose
in her hair, and one upon either cheek when she glanced up, hearing his
footsteps on the grass. There was also a crimson spot upon her white
hand.
"See!" she cried, "a cruel thorn has pricked me. Let me test your skill
in herbs, Sir Doctor."
With a sorry face, for it gave him pain to see her pain, Joyeuse ran to
find the leaf of a certain plant which he knew. Presently he returned,
and, taking a bit of linen from his scrip, tenderly bound the leaf about
the poor wounded finger.
"Now will it be cured," he said. "This is a remedy which never fails."
"How wise you are," murmured Fleurette, "a very Prince of Doctors!"
"Say, may I not then hope to be the doctor of the Princess?" he asked
eagerly.
But Fleurette shook her head. "We must see how the finger is to-morrow
morning. If it is quite healed then, perhaps-- But hark! That is the
Gardener's whistle. It is late, and I must return to the palace, or he
will find us trespassing." And away she ran, before Joyeuse had time to
say another word.
Now when the morrow arrived, Joyeuse sought Fleurette in the garden,
long and long. But at last he found her among the lavender. Her finger
indeed was healed, so that she smiled upon him, and she said,--
"Now you shall teach me to play the lute. The Princess, I know, would
fain master the lute. But I must see first what sort of teacher you make
before I take you to her."
So they sat down beside a marble fountain in the fairest part of the
garden; and there Joyeuse taught her how to pluck the lute and to make
sweet music. He taught her so well, and they passed the time so
pleasantly, that they forgot how the hours were flying.
"Joyeuse, you are the very Prince of Teachers!" said Fleurette.
At that moment a shadow fell upon the grass beside them, and lo! there
stood the head Gardener, who had heard the sound of the music, and had
hurried to see who might be in the Princess's garden at this forbidden
hour. The Princess gave a little cry, and without a word slipped away
through an opening in the hedge that she knew, before the Gardener had a
chance to see her face.
"Huh!" grunted the Gardener. "She has escaped, whoever she is. But we
shall soon know her name. You shall tell us that and other things, you
minstrel fellow."
"That I will never tell you!" cried Joyeuse.
"Huh! We shall see about that, too," retorted the Gardener surlily. "You
shall not escape, Sirrah. I will take you to my lady the Princess, and
you will have a chance to explain how you came to be here playing the
lute in her garden at a forbidden hour. Come along!" And he advanced to
seize Joyeuse by the collar. He was a huge, burly fellow, almost a giant
in size.
But Joyeuse laid his hand on his sword and said: "Keep back, Gardener,
and do not attempt to lay hands on me! I promise to follow wherever you
may lead, but you shall not touch me to make me prisoner."
"Huh! A valiant minstrel!" sneered the Gardener. But he looked twice at
the Stranger's flashing eyes and at his strong right arm, and decided to
accept his promise. At once he led the way through the winding paths of
the garden until they came to the palace gate. Now Joyeuse was shut into
a dark dungeon to wait the hour when the Princess was wont to hold
council, to listen to the prayers of her suitors and the wishes of her
people.
Poor Joyeuse! "This is the end of my happy time," he said to himself.
"The Princess will now dismiss me, if she does no worse. She will have
no charity for a trespasser in her garden, of which she is so jealous. I
may not tell her how her fair maiden met me there and urged me to
remain. I cannot tell; for that might bring trouble upon the
flower-maiden, whom, alas, I may never see again!"
So he mused, wondering wistfully that she should have left him without a
word. But there was no blame for her in his heart; he loved her so very
dearly.
III
It was afternoon when the Gardener opened the cell of Joyeuse and bade
him follow to the great hall of the palace where the Princess would hear
his crime and appoint his punishment.
With a heavy heart he followed down the white marble corridors on the
heels of the giant Gardener, who muttered to himself as they went. Now
and then he would turn to look at Joyeuse and shake his head, as though
foreseeing for him some dreadful punishment. At last they came to a
great hall, carpeted with green and ceiled with blue, while the walls
were of rosy pink. At the further end of the hall was a throne of gold;
and upon it sat the Princess Fleurette. But Joyeuse dared not lift his
eyes to look at her.
He walked slowly down the hall after the Gardener, and they took their
stand near the throne, but behind the first rank of people. These were
the gayly dressed attendants upon a great Prince, who had come that day
to woo the Princess. Even at that moment the Herald was calling out his
name and titles--"Fortemain, Prince of Kalabria, Knight of the Silver
Feather, Captain of a hundred spears!" The Prince Fortemain himself
bowed before the throne, while his attendants stood behind him, bearing
most wonderful gifts for the royal lady. There were caskets of jewels,
pieces of rich silks and ermine fur, singing birds in cages, little
monkeys, and other curious pets from far lands. There were never finer
presents than those which the Prince Fortemain brought to the Princess
Fleurette.
A chorus of "Ohs!" went up from the maids of honor when they saw the
richness of these gifts. But Joyeuse dared not even look up to see if
his flower-maiden were among the white-robed band. He feared to betray
her to the fierce eyes of the Gardener, who was watching him closely.
The Prince Fortemain made his speech very prettily, offering the
Princess his heart and hand, and all his riches, as well as his kingdom
beyond the seas, to which he hoped to carry her.
Then the Princess spoke in answer, very gently. And the sound of her
voice was like music in the hall.
"I have no wish to leave my own little kingdom of flowers," she said. "I
am happy and contented here. I have no wish to exchange hearts, save
with him who understands mine well. Let him find it where it is already
bestowed, among my flowers. Choose my favorite flower, dear Prince, and
I am yours."
At the sound of her voice Joyeuse started, and for the first time looked
up. There she sat upon the golden throne,--his own dear flower-maiden,
she who had met him for three mornings in the garden! But now she wore
no coarse gown of green. She was robed all in white, from her head to
her little feet, which were shod with gold. A golden girdle she wore,
and a golden band confined her golden hair. She glanced at Joyeuse as
she spoke the last words to the Prince, and Joyeuse was sure that her
eyes twinkled. Instantly a bold thought came into his head, for he was
a bold fellow. He had been brought to her as a trespasser, ready for
punishment. He would remain as a suitor! This Princess was his little
playmate; he could not, would not lose her. Had she not thrice called
him a Prince? He would woo her, then, like any prince.
But now the Princess was speaking again, and this time she looked
straight at him. "Whom have we here, good Gardener?" she asked, trying
to force a little frown.
"A trespasser, your Highness," answered the Gardener, in his gruff
voice, hustling Joyeuse to the foot of the throne, "a trespasser whom I
found in your royal garden this morning at a disgustingly early hour,
sitting with a fair maiden among the lavender, strumming on a lute. I
saw not the face of the girl, but I fancy she must be one of your own
maids of honor. She also should be punished for listening to the music
of the wicked youth."
A little cry of horror arose from the gay group about the Princess, as
they looked at one another, wondering who the shocking early-riser could
be. The Princess looked sharply at Joyeuse and said: "Tell us the name
of the maiden, Sirrah, and you shall be pardoned of your grievous
fault."
Joyeuse looked up at the Princess and said gently: "Lady, I will tell
her name to you, and to you alone, if you ask it; though I think that
you guess it already. But first, I pray you, hear my suit. For I also
have come hither as a suitor."
At these words the Princess started, and her cheek flushed. The Gardener
seized Joyeuse by the arm to drag him away. But Fleurette made a sign
for him to stand back.
"Let the Stranger speak," she said, "and let him show, if he can, why,
instead of being punished, he should be welcomed as one of our suitors."
Then Joyeuse knelt on the lowest step of the throne and laid at his
maiden's feet his sword and his lute and the scrip, or little pocket,
which he wore at his side.
"Fair Princess," he said, "I come with scanty gifts and with no
attendants--poor and alone. But all that I have I offer you; my sword
for your protection, my music for your joy, my little learning for your
aid in sickness and in health. To atone for my boldness in forcing your
garden gate I offer the service of all these for as long as you will
have them. And withal I offer my merry heart, as true and faithful as
that of any prince in the world; but more loving than any."
At this saying the Prince Fortemain pushed forward indignantly. "You
shall not listen to these idle words, O Princess!" he cried. "This
fellow has no right to speak thus to you. He is no prince; he is but a
wandering minstrel and vagabond. Let him be flogged from the gates."
"Ay, let him be flogged away!" echoed the Gardener and others, and they
jostled closer as if to seize him. But Joyeuse still knelt at the feet
of his flower-maiden, not at all afraid. The Princess rose, and,
stamping her little foot, angrily commanded her people to be quiet.
Then she spoke to Joyeuse, and the anger was gone from her voice.
"It is true you are no prince," she said. "What have you to say in reply
to this Prince's word?"
"Am I no prince?" he answered, looking her straight in the eyes. "The
fairest Princess in the world has thrice named me Prince,--Prince of
Minstrels, Prince of Doctors, Prince of Teachers. Does not that make me
a prince indeed?"
There was a silence in the hall at this bold answer. Then Fleurette
beckoned to her the Wise Man of the court, a wise man dressed all in
black, with a long white beard and hair like silver thistledown.
"O Wise Man, if a princess gave him these titles, is he indeed a
prince?" she asked, and her voice was eager.
The Wise Man thought for a little time, then nodded gravely thrice. "Ay,
my Princess, so it is written in the Book of True Chivalry. If he has
been so honored, he is in deed and in degree a prince."
"Nay!" cried the Prince Fortemain, "I say nay! She has not also named
him the Prince of Courage. The Book of True Chivalry declares that he is
no very prince who cannot do battle nobly for his lady's sake."
"That will I gladly do," said Joyeuse eagerly. "I can wield sword as
well as any prince alive."
The cheeks of the Princess glowed brightly. "Let him prove it, Prince
Fortemain," she cried. "You shall punish him for his fault and for his
boast if his words prove false. But if he bear himself the better man he
shall be called a worthy suitor like yourself, and shall have an equal
chance with you."
Fortemain grumbled and looked sulky, for he felt ashamed to fight with a
wandering adventurer. But, since the Princess so commanded, there was
nothing for him but to obey. He drew his jeweled sword, and Joyeuse
lifted his plain one from where it lay on the step of the throne. The
courtiers made a ring around the two, and the bout began.
One--two! One--two! The bright blades flashed, and the two lads turned
one about the other, seeking each the advantage. They were both skillful
fencers; but the watchers soon saw that Joyeuse was the better man.
Dextrously he thrust and warily he parried. At last, with a sudden jump
and twist, he sent the weapon spinning from the hand of Fortemain. Away
across the hall it flew; and, with red face and scowling brow, the
Prince was forced to seek it where it fell.
"Well done! Well done!" cried the crowd, clapping their hands,
forgetting the fault of Joyeuse in the wonder of his bravery. And "Well
done!" cried Fleurette. "I, a Princess, name you in addition to your
other titles the Prince of Courage. Arise, Prince Joyeuse. Your suit is
answered thus, as I answer every prince who does me the honor to seek my
hand. If you be the very Prince for me you will know where to find my
heart. Seek it where it is hidden in my garden. _My heart is with my
favorite flower._ Farewell, my Princes both. An hour before noontide
to-morrow I will hold audience. Then he who is to be punished and he
who is to be rewarded shall learn their fate."
Saying thus she rose and, stepping lightly down from the throne, passed
out of the hall. Immediately all the lords and ladies followed her,
leaving the two suitors alone together.
Then the Prince Fortemain scowled at Joyeuse, and Joyeuse scowled back
at him; and they went out of the hall by opposite doors. For they loved
not each other.
Joyeuse was moving slowly away when the Gardener approached and touched
him on the shoulder. "How now, must I return to the dungeon as a
criminal?" asked Joyeuse, flushing red.
"Nay. Matters have changed, my Lord Prince," answered the Gardener
sulkily. "You seem no longer a trespasser, but a suitor. I do not
understand how the seesaw has tilted so suddenly. But certainly you are
to be lodged in no dungeon cell. My Lady has given orders that you be
shown to a chamber as fine as that of the Prince Fortemain himself. Come
with me, if it please you."
Joyeuse was then taken to a little chamber, not high, but very pleasant,
looking out upon the garden through a window latticed with vines.
"You are free to come and go, Master," said the Gardener, and left him
with a low bow.
Now by the time all these things were finished it was late in the day,
and Joyeuse said to himself: "I will not search for the precious flower
to-night. I know that my dear flower-maiden prefers the early morning
garden, and among the freshly opened buds which I have seen her caress
so kindly must be the one she loves the best. I will now seek sleep, for
I am very weary. But early will I waken to-morrow morning, to seek the
flower which is most dear to her."
So Joyeuse lay down on his bed, and was soon asleep, dreaming sweetly of
the morrow. For he nothing doubted but that he should find the right and
only flower, since he loved the Princess so dearly that he must at last
read her secret.
IV
But the Prince Fortemain had no such peace of mind. He was wounded in
his princely pride because of having been defeated by the wandering
Minstrel. He could not sleep; but, resolving to be beforehand with
Joyeuse, went out into the garden by night and sought high and low for
the flower-favorite of the Princess. For he said to himself: "The
precious time has been almost spent by that luckless fight. And by the
hour when I arise to-morrow it will be time to present myself before the
Princess." (He was a lazy, loitering Prince; which was one reason for
his sour temper, I suppose.) "I must, then, find the flower to-night,
before that villain Minstrel does so."
Up and down the flowery paths went Fortemain, in and out among the
sleeping blossoms. Most of them had their eyes shut tightly, and he
could not see how beautiful they were. At last he came upon a white,
heavy-scented tuberose gleaming in the moonlight, and it seemed to him
the fairest of all. "Ha!" he said, "this is the sweetest blossom. Surely
this must be the favorite of the Princess Fleurette. I will pluck this,
and to-morrow I will take it to her and claim her hand."
He gathered the tuberose and took it with him to his chamber. But even
then the Prince Fortemain could not rest. The odor of the flower was
heavy and sickening, and it gave him troublous dreams. All night
wretchedly he tossed and turned, and there was no refreshment in his
sleep.
Joyeuse woke in the morning fresh and happy and full of eagerness. He
woke very early--earlier even than usual, when he had been wont to join
the flower-maiden in her garden. He began to think of her, and how she
had looked at different times when he had thus seen her. He remembered
her the day before among the lavender; and before that among the roses,
with their dangerous thorns; once among the lilies, herself as pure and
white. "Surely, surely," he said to himself, "one of these three is her
favorite flower." And he lay staring up at the ceiling, trying to
remember which of all her posies she had seemed most to love. "Which one
of them has her heart? How curiously she said it: '_My heart is with my
favorite flower._' Surely, she meant something more by the words than
the first thought which they bring. What did she mean?"
At this moment Joyeuse glanced toward the window, where the morning
sunlight streamed in gloriously. The vines about the lattice trembled in
a passing breeze. One of them, reaching out a slender tendril-finger,
seemed to beckon him. He half rose in bed, smiling at the thought. Lo! a
little pink and white flower nodded at him over the window sill. It was
a morning-glory. How pretty, how fresh, how fairy-like it was, with the
dew in its cup, and with its little green leaves so graceful,--like
pointed hearts!
Suddenly Joyeuse sat straight up in bed. Those heart-shaped leaves! The
heart of the Princess Fleurette! Her favorite flower--was it not the
morning-glory? Now he remembered how he had first seen her peering in at
the little arbor, herself a pink and white flower on a green stem, with
the blossom in her hair. He remembered how she had kissed the little
cups and called them her darlings. How could he ever have forgotten! How
dull he had been!
He sprang from the bed and ran eagerly to the window. He stretched out
his hand to the blossom, not to pick it,--it was too early for
that,--but to caress it for his maiden's sake. Leaning out to do so, he
heard a little laugh beneath his window, and, looking down, he saw the
green flower-maiden with whom he had played in the mornings, standing at
the foot of the morning-glory vine, on which her hand rested lovingly.
She was looking up, but when she met his eyes she turned and ran away,
laughing softly as she disappeared from sight.
The time passed, all too slowly for Joyeuse. But at last came the hour
for the trial. The Herald blew his trumpet, "Tan-tara-tara!" and the
courtiers flocked to the hall to witness a ceremony the like of which
they had seen so many times before that they were bored at the very
thought. But because Joyeuse had first come as a prisoner and was now a
suitor for their lady's hand, they were somewhat more interested than
usual in the day's decision.
Weary with a heavy night and with evil dreams, the Prince Fortemain
stood on one side of the throne with his white tuberose in his hand. But
alas! The flower was as faded and weary looking as himself. Plucked so
early before the trial, all its fragrance and beauty were gone; and
Fortemain's heart sank as he looked at it, wondering if, after all, it
could be the Princess's favorite flower. But it was now too late to
select another. Indeed, he had but just risen when he heard the great
bell toll its warning to be ready for the trial. He showed a hasty
toilet, and a mind as ill-prepared.
Joyeuse, on the other hand, was as bright and brisk as the sun whose
rising he had seen. His suit of green velvet was fair to view, and his
eyes shone happily. In his hand he held a few inches of little vine,
with leaf and tendril and at the side a single pale pink blossom. The
courtiers eyed it curiously. Most of them had never before seen a
morning-glory; and they tittered to think one should suppose so simple a
flower could be the choice of a royal Princess.
Now the trumpet sounded again, and in came the Princess Fleurette,
dressed in a beautiful robe of green silk, in which she looked more than
ever like a wonderful flower. She mounted to her throne, looking down
kindly upon her people, but merely glancing toward the two suitors who
stood on either side of the dais.
"Now to the business of the day," she said. "I will listen to the choice
which my two suitors have made. And you first, Prince Fortemain--how
have you selected? Have you found the flower of my heart? Have you
guessed my secret choice, and are you therefore to be my very ownest
Prince?"
Prince Fortemain knelt at the foot of the throne and held out the
withered tuberose somewhat ruefully.
"This, my Princess, is your favorite flower, I think. All over the
garden I sought, and I deemed it best of all. This queen of the night is
less beautiful by day; but in the moonlight it was very fair and sweet.
I think your heart lies in this flower. Give it to me to wear alway,
dear Princess." He spoke beseechingly, for indeed he loved her very
dearly. But the Princess shook her head.
"Not so, O Prince," she said. "This flower of the night is not my
dearest one. It is sweet, but its breath is heavy and cloying; it takes
away sleep and fills the brain with stupor. Nay, you have not chosen
wisely, as your own haggard looks show. You are not to be my Prince. You
know not my heart. Farewell, Prince Fortemain."
Then Fortemain rose and turned away, as so many princes had done before
him. He went out of the palace very sadly, and was nevermore seen in
that place.
The Princess turned next to Joyeuse. "And what has our Prince of
Wanderers chosen?" she asked. "How well does Joyeuse know the heart of
Fleurette?"
"I have chosen thus," said the lad, as he knelt at the feet of the
flower-maiden and held out to her the bit of vine, with its frail
blossom. "The sweet and simple blossom of early morning; the favorite of
the early-riser. This has your heart, O my Princess--see, its
heart-shaped leaf! Have I not guessed aright?"
Then the Princess went down the steps of the throne and took the vine
from the hand of Joyeuse and placed its flower in her hair. But her hand
holding the heart-shaped leaf she placed within that of Joyeuse, and she
said: "Prince Joyeuse, you have chosen well, because you know my heart,
and because you love what I love. You have guessed my secret. You found
my heart among the morning-glories, and now it is yours forever. Take
it, Prince Joyeuse, and with it my hand. I have yet to punish you for
your fault in entering my garden at a forbidden hour. Your punishment
shall be this: you shall without reward for a year and a day be my
minstrel, my soldier, my teacher, my doctor. But from thenceforth
forever you shall be my very ownest Prince, sharer of my kingdom of
flowers. This is the doom and the decree which I pronounce."
Then she kissed him very sweetly, and, leading him up to the throne,
they sat down side by side upon the golden chairs.
"Sing to them, my Minstrel," said the Princess. And he sang as she
commanded, until the courtiers hugged one another for joy of his
wondrous music. He sang a song of Fleurette and her heart like a flower.
But he sang not the story of the flower-maiden, for that was a secret
between him and the Princess, while they lived happily ever after.
From that time forward, each morning Joyeuse and Fleurette stole down
into the garden while the others were yet asleep and enjoyed the flowers
at their fairest. And no one, not even the surly Gardener, suspected
anything about it, which was the greatest fun of all to the merry pair.
Nor did any one ever hear aught of the tale until this day, when I tell
it to you.
But it was a morning-glory which telephoned it to me this morning, very,
very early, while lazy folk were abed.
THE LITTLE FRIEND
I
"OH! I am so cold, so cold!" sobbed little Pierre, as he stumbled
through the snow which was drifting deep upon the mountain side. "Oh, I
am so cold! The snow bites my face and blinds me, so that I cannot see
the road. Where are all the Christmas candle-lights? The people of the
village must have forgotten. The little Jesus will lose His way
to-night. I never forgot to set our window at home full of lights on
Christmas Eve. But now it is Christmas Eve, and there is no home any
more. And I am so cold, so cold!"
Little Pierre sobbed again and stumbled in the snow, which was drifting
deeper and deeper upon the mountain side. This was the stormiest
Christmas Eve which had been seen for years, and all the little boys who
had good homes were hugging themselves close to the fire, glad that
they were not out in the bleak night. Every window was full of
flickering tapers to light the expected Holy Child upon His way through
the village to the church. But little Pierre had strayed so far from the
road that he could not see these rows and rows of tiny earth-stars, any
more than he could see through the snow the far-off sky-stars which the
angels had lighted along the streets of heaven.
Pierre was on his way to the village from the orphan boys' home at the
Abbe's charity school. And that was not like a happy real home, for the
little Brothers were rough and rude and far from loving one another. He
had started at dusk from the school, hoping to be at the village church
before curfew. For Pierre had a sweet little voice, and he was to earn a
few pennies by singing in the choir on Christmas morning. But it was
growing late. The church would be closed and the Cure gone home before
Pierre could reach it; and then what should he do?
The snow whirled faster and faster, and Pierre's legs found it harder
and harder to move themselves through the great drifts. They seemed
heavy and numb, and he was growing oh, so tired! If he could but lie
down to sleep until Christmas Day! But he knew that he must not do that.
For those who choose this kind of soft and tempting bed turn into
ice-people, and do not wake up in the morning. So he bent his head and
tried to plough on through the drifts.
Whish! A soft white thing flapped through the snow and struck Pierre in
the face, so that he staggered and almost lost his balance. The next
moment he had caught the thing as it fell and was holding it tenderly in
his numb hands. It was a beautiful dove, white as the snow from which it
seemed to come. It had been whirled about by the storm until it had lost
strength to fly, and it now lay quite still, with closed eyes. Pierre
stroked the ruffled feathers gently and blew upon its cold body, trying
to bring it back to life.
"Poor bird!" he said softly. "You are lost in the snow, like me. I will
try to keep you warm, though I am myself a cold little body." He put the
bird under his jacket, holding it close to his heart. Presently the dove
opened its eyes and stirred feebly, giving a faint "Coo!"
"I wish I had something for you to eat, poor bird," said Pierre,
forgetting his own cold and hunger. "If I could but take you into my own
house and feed you as I used to feed the birds upon Christmas Eve! But
now I have no home myself, and I can scarcely keep you warm."
Pierre shivered and tried to move forward. But the storm seemed to grow
even fiercer, and the wind blew so keenly in his face that he could
scarcely stand. "I cannot go another step," he said, and down he sank in
the snow, which began to cover him with a downy blanket, pretending to
be a careful mother. He hugged the bird closer and began to feel afraid.
He knew that he was in great danger. "Dear Dove," he whispered, "I am
sorry that I cannot save you. We shall turn into ice-images together.
But I will keep you warm as long as I can." Then he closed his eyes, for
he was very sleepy.
In a little while something made Pierre open his eyes. At first he could
see only the whirling snow, which seemed to be everywhere. But presently
he found that some one was bending over him, with face close to his;
some one chubby and rosy and young,--a child like himself, but more
beautiful than any child whom Pierre had ever seen. He stared hard at
the face which seemed to smile at him through the snow, not minding the
cold.
"You have my dove inside your coat," said the Child, pointing. "I lost
her in the storm. Give her to me."
Pierre held his coat the closer. "She was cold," he answered. "She was
dying in the snow. I am trying to keep her warm."
"But she is warm when she is with me, though I have no coat to wrap her
in," said the Child. And, indeed, he was clad only in a little shirt,
with his rosy legs quite bare. Yet he looked not cold. A brightness
glowed about him, and his breath seemed to warm the air. Pierre saw
that, though it was still snowing beyond them, there were no whirling
flakes between him and the Child.
The little Stranger held out his hand once more. "Please give me the
dove," he begged. "I must hasten on my way to the village yonder. The
dove strayed from my bosom and was lost. You found her here, far from
the road. Thank you, little boy. Are you often so kind to poor lost
birds?"
"Why, they are the Lord's own birds!" cried little Pierre. "How should
one not be kind and love them dearly? On the Lord's birthday eve, too!
It is little that I could do for this one,--I who have saved and fed so
many on other Christmas Eves. Alas, I wish I was back in those good old
days of the wheat-sheaf and the full pan of milk and the bright warm
fire!" Pierre's eyes filled with tears.
"What! Did you set a sheaf of wheat for the birds on Christmas Eve?"
asked the Child, drawing closer and bending kindly eyes upon Pierre.
Now the boy saw that where the Stranger stood the snow had melted all
away, so that they were inclosed in a little space like a downy nest,
which seemed almost warm to his limbs.
"Yes, I set out a wheat-sheaf," said Pierre simply. "Why not? I love all
the little creatures whom our Lord Himself so dearly loved, and to whom
He bade us be kind. On Christmas Eve especially I always tried to make
happy those which He sent in my way,--poor little wanderers as well as
our own friends at home."