palace, neck and heels; so back poor Peter went to his mother with a
flea in his ear, as the saying is. Now he was poor again, and everybody
called him a dull block, for he rode no great white horse and he wore
wooden shoes.
"Never mind," said his mother, "here is another basket of eggs from the
speckled hen." So Peter set off with these to the market town, as he had
done with the others before. When he had come to the great stone at the
forking of the road, whom should he meet but the same little gentleman
he had met the first time. "Will you strike a bargain?" said he. Yes,
Peter would strike a bargain, and gladly. Thereupon the little old man
brought out another black bottle.
"Two men are in this bottle," said the little old man; "when they have
done all that you want them to do, say 'brikket-ligg' and they will go
back again. Will you trade with me?" Yes, Peter would trade. So Peter
gave the little man the eggs, and the little man gave Peter the second
bottle, and they parted very good friends.
After a while Peter grew tired. "Now," said he to himself, "I will ride
a little"; and so he drew the cork out of the bottle. Pop! pop! out came
two men from the bottle; but this time they were ugly and black, and
each held a stout stick in his hand. They said not a word, but, without
more ado, fell upon Peter and began threshing him as though he was wheat
on the barn floor. "Stop! stop!" cried Peter, and he went hopping and
skipping up and down, and here and there, but it seemed as though the
two ugly black men did not hear him, for the blows fell as thick as
hail on the roof. At last he gathered his wits together, like a flock of
pigeons, and cried, "Brikket-ligg! brikket-ligg!" Then, whisk! pop! they
went back into the bottle again, and Peter corked it up, and corked it
tightly, I can tell you.
[Illustration: Clever Peter and the Unlucky Bottle]
The next day he started off to the palace once more. Rap! rap! rap! he
knocked at the door. Was the King at home? Yes, the King was at home;
would he come and sit in the parlor?
Presently the King came in, in dressing-gown and slippers. "What! are
you back again?" said he.
"Yes; I am back again," said Peter.
"What do you want?" said the King.
"I want to marry the Princess," said Peter.
"What have you brought this time?" said the King.
"I have brought another bottle," said Peter.
Then the King rubbed his hands and was very polite indeed, and asked
Peter in to breakfast, and Peter went. So they all three sat down
together, the King, the Princess, and Peter.
"My dear," said the King, to the Princess, "the Lord Peter has brought
another bottle with him." Thereat the Princess was very polite also.
Would Lord Peter let them see the bottle? Oh yes! Peter would do that:
so he drew it out of his pocket and sat it upon the table.
Perhaps they would like to have it opened. Yes, that they would. So
Peter opened the bottle.
Hui! what a hubbub there was! The King hopped about till his slippers
flew off, his dressing-gown fluttered like great wings, and his crown
rolled off from his head and across the floor, like a quoit at the fair.
As for the Princess, she never danced in all of her life as she danced
that morning. They made such a noise that the soldiers of the Royal
Guard came running in; but the two tall black men spared them no more
than the King and the Princess. Then came all of the Lords of the
Council, and they likewise danced to the same music as the rest.
"Oh, Peter! dear Lord Peter! cork up your men again!" they all cried.
"Will you give me back my bottle?" said Peter.
"Yes! yes!" cried the King.
"Will you marry me?" said Peter.
"Yes! yes!" cried the Princess.
Then Peter said "brikket-ligg!" and the two tall men popped back into
the bottle again. So the King gave him back his other bottle, and the
minister was called in and married him to the Princess.
After that he lived happily, and when the old King died he became King
over all of the land. As for the Princess, she was as good a wife as you
ever saw, but Peter always kept the bottle near to him--maybe that was
the reason.
Ah me! if I could only take my eggs to such a
market and get two such bottles for them!
What would I do with them? It would
take too long to tell you.
[Illustration: Clever Peter opens the Unlucky Bottle for the King and
Princess.]
[Illustration: Ye Romantic Adventures of Three Tailors. This is a full
page poem showing the three tailors walking together, the three
approaching the milk-maids, and the three walking away saddened.]
YE ROMANTIC ADVENTURES OF THREE TAILORS
Three little men went ajogging along--
Along in the sunshiny weather.
And they laughed and they sang an occasional song
Which they all of them caroled together.
And the great white clouds floated over the sky
And the day it was warm and the sun it was high.
As three jolly tailor men all were they
As you'd find in a dozen of years.
One carried the yardstick another the goose
And the bravest of all bore the shears
So they merrily trudged until after awhile
The came where three milk-maids sat all on a stile.
The grass it was green and the flowers were gay,
And it was the pleasantest weather.
And the milkmaids were pretty as blossoms in May
As they sat on the stile all together.
Then they stopped on the high-way those three gallant men
For they never had seen as fair lasses as then.
Then up spake the first of the tailor men three
And the one with the goodliest parts.
"We are all of us good men gallant and free
And have never yet plighted our hearts.
So prithee fair maids will you marry us all
For our hearts they be great as our bodies be small."
Then up spake the first of the three pretty dears
"Pray tell what your fortunes may be sir."
"Oh three loving hearts and a yard goose and shears."
"Then you've not enough fortune for me sir.
So get you along while your boots are still green
For richer young men we shall marry I ween."
Three little tailor men jogging along--
Along in the sunshiny weather.
No longer they laugh with a jest and a song
But they walk very sadly together.
For when maidens are proud like the milkmaidens cold,
The lads they grow sad like the tailors so bold.
Howard Pyle
[Illustration: FANCY AND FACT. This is an illustrated poem with the
shepherd and shepherdess sitting in the grass above the poem, and the
two of them sick with their heads wrapped on either side of the poem.]
FANCY AND FACT
O! a shepherd and a shepherdess,
They dwelt in Arcadee,
And they were dressed in Watteau dress,
Most charming for to see.
They sat upon the dewy grass,
With buds and blossoms set.
And the shepherd played unto the lass,
Upon a flageolet.
It seemed to me as though it was
A very pleasant thing;
Particularly so because
The time of year was Spring.
But, O! the ground was damp, and so,
At least, I have been told,
The shepherd caught the lumbago,
The shepherdess, a cold.
My darling Child! the fact is
That the Poets often sing
Of those joys which in the practice
Are another sort of thing.
H. P.
[Illustration: YE TWO WISHES. This is a full page illustrated poem with
the angel and faggot-maker sitting together, the faggot-maker going into
the bottle, and the faggot-maker coming out again.]
YE TWO WISHES
An Angel went a walking out one day, as I've heard said,
And, coming to a faggot-maker, begged a crust of bread
The faggot-maker gave a crust and something rather queer
To wash it down withall, from out a bottle that stood near.
The Angel finished eating; but before he left, said he,
"Thou shalt have two wishes granted, for that thou hast given me.
One wish for that good drinkable, another for the bread."
The he left the faggot-maker all amazed at what he'd said.
"I wonder," says the faggot-maker, after he had gone,
"I wonder if there's any truth in that same little song!"
So, turning this thing over in his mind, he cast around,
'Till he saw the empty bottle where it lay upon the ground.
"I wish," said he, just as a test, "if what he said is so,
Into that empty bottle, now, that I may straightway go"
No sooner said that done; for,--_Whisk!_ into the flask he fell,
Where he found himself as tightly packed as chicken in the shell.
In vain he kicked and twisted, and in vain he howled with pain;
For, in spite of all his efforts, he could not get out again.
So, seeing how the matter stood, he had to wish once more.
When, out he slipped, as easily as he'd gone in before.
If we had two wishes, granted by an Angel thus,
We would not throw away the good so kindly given us.
For first we'd ask for wisdom, which, when we had in store,
I'm very doubtful if we'd care to ask for anymore.
Howard Pyle
[Illustration: A VERSE WITH A MORAL BUT NO NAME. This illustrated poem
depicts the wise man asking all sorts of people.]
A VERSE WITH A MORAL BUT NO NAME
A wise man once, of Haarlem town,
Went wandering up, and wandering down,
And ever the question asked:
"If all the world was paper,
And if all the sea was ink,
And if the trees were bread and cheese,
What would we do for drink?"
Then all the folk, both great and small,
Began to beat their brains,
But they could not answer him at all,
In spite of all their pains.
But still he wandered here and there,
This man of great renown,
And still he questioned everywhere,
The folk of Haarlem town:
"If all the world was paper,
And if all the sea was ink,
And if the trees were bread and cheese,
What would we do for drink?"
Full thin he grew, as, day by day,
He toiled with mental strain,
Until the wind blew him away,
And he ne'er was seen again.
And now methinks I hear you say,
"Was ere a man so foolish, pray,
Since first the world began?"
Oh, hush! I'll tell you secretly
Down East there dwells a man, and he
Is asking questions constantly,
That none can answer, that I see,
Yet he's a wise-wise man!
H. Pyle
[Illustration]
HANS HECKLEMANN'S LUCK
Hans Hecklemann had no luck at all. Now and then we hear folks say that
they have no luck, but they only mean that their luck is bad and that
they are ashamed of it. Everybody but Hans Hecklemann had luck of some
kind, either good or bad, and, what is more, everybody carries his luck
about with him; some carry it in their pocket-books, some carry it in
their hats, some carry it on their finger tips, and some carry it under
their tongues--these are lawyers. Mine is at this moment sitting astride
of my pen, though I can no more see it than though it was thin air;
whether it is good or bad depends entirely as to how _you_ look upon it.
But Hans Hecklemann had no luck at all. How he lost it nobody knows, but
it is certain that it was clean gone from him.
He was as poor as charity, and yet his luck was not bad, for, poor as he
was, he always had enough for his wife and his family and himself to
eat. They all of them worked from dawn to nightfall, and yet his luck
was not good, for he never laid one penny on top of the other, as the
saying is. He had food enough to eat, and clothes enough to wear, so his
luck was not indifferent. Now, as it was neither good, bad, nor
indifferent, you see that it could have been no luck at all.
Hans Hecklemann's wife was named Catherine. One evening when Hans came
into the cottage with just enough money to buy them all bread and not a
cracked farthing to spare, Catherine spoke to him of this matter.
"Hans," said she, "you have no luck at all."
[Illustration: Hans Hecklemann, Catherine.]
"No," said Hans, "I have not," which was the truth, as I have already
told you.
"What are you going to do about it?" said Catherine.
"Nothing at all," said Hans.
"Doing nothing puts no cabbage into the pot," said Catherine.
"It takes none out," said Hans.
"See, Hans," said Catherine; "go to the old wise woman in the wood and
talk to her about it; who knows but that she can tell you how and where
you lost your luck?"
"If I should find my luck it might be bad and not good," said Hans.
"It is worth having a look at," said Catherine; "you can leave it where
you find it if it does not please you."
"No," said Hans; "when a man finds his luck he has to take it, whether
he likes it or no."
So Hans talked, but he had made up his mind to do as Catherine said, to
go and see the old wise woman in the wood. He argued with her, but he
only argued with her to let her know how little was her knowledge and
how great was his. After he had clearly shown her how poor her advice
was, he took it. Many other men are like Hans Hecklemann.
So, early the next morning, Hans jogged along to the old wise woman's
cottage, while the day was sweet and fresh. The hedgerows were covered
all over with white blossoms, as though it was with so much snow; the
cuckoo was singing among the budding branches, and the little flowers
were looking up everywhere with their bright faces. "Surely," said Hans
to himself, "if I find my luck on this day, it must be good and not
ill."
So he came to the little red cottage at the edge of the wood wherein
lived the wise woman who knew many things and one. Hans scraped his feet
on the stones until they were clean, and then he knocked at the door.
"Come in," said the old wise woman.
She was as strange an old woman as one could hope to see in a lifetime.
Her nose bent down to meet her chin, and her chin bent up to reach her
nose; her face was gray with great age, and her hair was as white as
snow. She wore a long red cloak over her shoulders, and a great black
cat sat on the back of her chair.
"What do you want, Son Hans?" said she.
"I want to find my luck, mother," said Hans.
"Where did you lose it, Son Hans?" said she.
"That I do not know, mother," said Hans.
Then the old wise woman said "Hum-m-m!" in a very thoughtful voice, and
Hans said nothing at all.
After a while she spoke again. "Have you enough to eat?" said she.
"Oh yes!" said Hans.
"Have you enough to drink?" said she.
"Plenty of water, enough of milk, but no beer," said Hans.
"Have you enough clothes to cover you?" said she.
"Oh yes!" said Hans.
"Are you warm enough in winter?" said she.
"Oh yes!" said Hans.
"Then you had better leave well enough alone," said she, "for luck can
give you nothing more."
"But it might put money into my pocket," said Hans.
"And it might take away the good things that you already have," said
she.
"All the same, I should like to find it again," said Hans; "if I could
only lay my hands on it I might make good out of it, even if it is bad."
"I doubt that," said the old wise woman. Nevertheless, she saw that
Hans was set in his own way, and that he only talked stiffness into his
stubbornness. So she arose from her chair with much groaning, for her
joints were stiffened with age, and limping to a closet in the wall she
brought a book thence. Then she ran her finger down one page and up
another, until she had found that which she sought. When she had found
it she spoke:
[Illustration: Hans Hecklemann goes to the cottage of the old Wise Woman
in search of his Luck.]
"Son Hans, you lost your luck three years ago when you were coming from
the fair at Kneitlingen. You sat down on the overturned cross that lies
where three roads meet, and it fell out of your pocket along with a
silver shilling. Now, Hans, your luck was evil, therefore it stuck to
the good sign, as all evil things of that kind must, like a fly to
butter. Also, I tell you this: when an evil manikin such as this touches
the sign of the good cross, he becomes visible to the eyes of everybody
who chooses to look upon him. Therefore go to the stone cross and you
will find your luck running this way and that, but never able to get
away from it." So saying, the old woman shut her book again. Then she
arose from her chair and went once more to the closet in the wall. This
time she took from it a little sack woven of black goat's hair. "When
you have found your luck again, put it into this little bag," said she;
"once in it, no evil imp will be able to get out again so long as you
keep the strings tied. And now good-bye!"
[Illustration: Hans Hecklemann and the Old Wise-Woman]
Then Hans slipped the little sack into his pocket, and set out for the
overturned stone cross where the three roads meet. When he had come to
the place, he looked here and there, and this way and that, but for a
long time he could see nothing at all. At last, after much looking, he
beheld a little black beetle running hither and thither on the stone. "I
wonder," said Hans, "if this can be my luck."
So saying, he caught the little beetle betwixt his finger and thumb, but
very carefully, for he could not tell whether or not it might bite him.
The beetle stuck to the stone as though it had been glued there, but, at
last, Hans pulled it away; then--lo! it was not a beetle that he held in
his hand, but a little manikin about as long as your thumb and as black
as ink. Hans Hecklemann was so frightened that he nearly dropped it, for
it kicked and screeched and rolled its red eyes in a very ugly way as he
held it. However, he popped it into the little sack and pulled the
strings tight, and there it was, safe and sound.
That is what Hans Hecklemann's luck was like.
So Hans having his luck secure in the little sack began to bargain with
it. "What will you do for me if I let you out?" said he.
"Nothing at all," snarled his luck.
"Very well," said Hans, "we will see about that."
So he carried it home with him, and threw sack and all into a nasty pot
where Catherine cast the scrapings of the dishes--the fat and what not
that she boiled down into soap now and then. There he left his luck to
stay until the next day, and then he went to it again. "What will you do
for me if I will let you out now?" said he.
"Nothing at all," snarled his luck.
"Very well," said Hans, "we will see about that." So he let him stay
where he was for another day. And so the fiddle played; every day Hans
Hecklemann went to his luck and asked it what it would give him if he
would let it out, and every day his luck said nothing; and so a week
or more passed.
[Illustration: Hans finds his Luck]
At last Hans's luck gave in.
"See, Hans," it said one morning; "if you will let me out of this nasty
pickle I will give you a thousand thalers."
"Ah no!" said Hans. "Thalers are only thalers, as my good father used to
say. They melt away like snow, and then nothing is left of them. I will
trust no such luck as that!"
"I will give you two thousand thalers," said his luck.
[Illustration: Hans Hecklemann ploughs for Gold]
"Ah no!" said Hans; "two thousand thalers are only twice one thousand
thalers. I will trust no such luck as that, either!"
"Then what will you take to let me out, Hans Hecklemann?" said his luck.
"Look," said Hans; "yonder stands my old plough. Now, if you will give
me to find a golden noble at the end of every furrow that I strike with
it I will let you out. If not--why, then, into the soap you go."
"Done!" said Hans's luck.
"Done!" said Hans.
Then he opened the mouth of the sack, and--puff! went his luck, like
wind out of a bag, and--pop! it slipped into his breeches pocket.
He never saw it again with his mortal eyes, but it stayed near to him, I
can tell you. "Ha! ha! ha!" it laughed in his pocket, "you have made an
ill bargain, Hans, I can tell you!"
"Never mind," said Hans, "I am contented."
Hans Hecklemann did not tarry long in trying the new luck of his old
plough, as you may easily guess. Off he went like the wind and borrowed
Fritz Friedleburg's old gray horse. Then he fastened the horse to the
plough and struck the first furrow. When he had come to the end of
it--pop! up shot a golden noble, as though some one had spun it up from
the ground with his finger and thumb. Hans picked it up, and looked at
it and looked at it as though he would swallow it with his eyes. Then he
seized the handle of the plough and struck another furrow--pop! up went
another golden noble, and Hans gathered it as he had done the other one.
So he went on all of that day, striking furrows and gathering golden
nobles until all of his pockets were as full as they could hold. When it
was too dark to see to plough any more he took Fritz Friedleburg's horse
back home again, and then he went home himself.
All of his neighbors thought that he was crazy, for it was nothing but
plough, plough, plough, morning and noon and night, spring and summer
and autumn. Frost and darkness alone kept him from his labor. His stable
was full of fine horses, and he worked them until they dropped in the
furrows that he was always ploughing.
"Yes; Hans is crazy," they all said; but when Hans heard them talk in
this way he only winked to himself and went on with his ploughing, for
he felt that he knew this from that.
But ill luck danced in his pocket with the golden nobles, and from the
day that he closed his bargain with it he was an unhappy man. He had no
comfort of living, for it was nothing but work, work, work. He was up
and away at his ploughing at the first dawn of day, and he never came
home till night had fallen; so, though he ploughed golden nobles, he did
not turn up happiness in the furrows along with them. After he had eaten
his supper he would sit silently behind the stove, warming his fingers
and thinking of some quicker way of doing his ploughing. For it seemed
to him that the gold-pieces came in very slowly, and he blamed himself
that he had not asked his luck to let him turn up three at a time
instead of only one at the end of each furrow; so he had no comfort in
his gathering wealth. As day followed day he grew thin and haggard and
worn, but seven boxes of bright new gold-pieces lay hidden in the
cellar, of which nobody knew but himself. He told no one how rich he was
growing, and all of his neighbors wondered why he did not starve to
death.
So you see the ill luck in his breeches pocket had the best of the
bargain, after all.
After Hans had gone the way of all men, his heirs found the chests full
of gold in the cellar, and therewith they bought fat lands and became
noblemen and gentlemen; but that made Hans's luck none the better.
From all this I gather:
That few folks can turn ill luck into good luck.
That the best thing for one to do is to let well enough alone.
That one cannot get happiness as one does cabbages--with
money.
That happiness is the only good luck, after all!
[Illustration: Ye Song of ye Rajah & ye Fly. This illustrated poem
depicts the Rajah in the various stages of the poem.]
YE SONG OF YE RAJAH & YE FLY
Great and rich beyond comparing
Was the Rajah Rhama Jaring,
As he went to take an airing
With his Court one summer day.
All were gay with green and yellow;
And a little darky fellow
Bore a monstrous fun umbrella,
For to shade him on the way.
Now a certain fly, unwitting
Of this grandeur, came a-flitting
To the Royal nose, and sitting
Twirled his legs upon the same.
Then the Rajah's eyes blazed fire
At the insult, and the ire
In his heart boiled high and higher.
Slap! he struck, but missed his aim.
Then all trembled at this passion,
For he spoke in furious fashion.
"Saw ye how yon fly did dash on
To our august nose!" he said.
"Now let all within our nation
Wage a war without cessation
War of b-lood, ex-ter-mi-nation,
Until every fly is dead!!!!"
Now the while this war was raging,
That the rajah was a-waging,
Things that should have been engaging
His attention went to pot.
So he came at last to begging,
Though the flies continued plaguing.
For it's not so easy pegging
Out vexation thus, I wot.
From this you may see what all have to expect,
Who, fighting small troubles, great duties neglect.
H. Pyle
[Illustration: Pride in Distress. This full page illustrated poem shows
the mistress walking along with others watching, until she steps into a
small pool and scares some geese aloft.]
PRIDE IN DISTRESS
Mistress Polly Poppenjay
Went to take a walk one day.
On that morning she was dressed
In her very Sunday best;
Feathers, frills and ribbons gay,--
Proud was Mistress Poppenjay.
Mistress Polly Poppenjay
Spoke to no one on her way;
Passed acquaintances aside;
Held her head aloft with pride;
Did not see a puddle lay
In front of Mistress Poppenjay.
Mistress Polly Poppenjay
Harked to naught the folk could say.
Loud they cried, "Beware the puddle!"
_Plump!_ She stepped into the middle.
And a pretty plight straightway
Was poor Mistress Poppenjay.
Mistress Polly Poppenjay;
From your pickle others may
Learn to curb their pride a little;--
Learn to exercise their wit, till
They are sure no puddles may
Lie in front, Miss Poppenjay.
Howard Pyle.
[Illustration: Profession & Practice. This full page poem has the saint
at the door of a thin man with empty purse, then at the door with the
man well fed and full purse, and finally the saint alone scratching his
head.]
PROFESSION & PRACTICE
Once, when Saint Swithin chanced to be
A-wandering in Hungary,
He, being hungered, cast around
To see if something might be found
To stay his stomach.