[Illustration]
------------------------------------------------------------------------
THE CHRONICLES OF FAIRY LAND
------------------------------------------------------------------------
_HOLIDAY EDITIONS OF
JUVENILE CLASSICS_
By GEORGE MACDONALD
THE PRINCESS AND THE
GOBLIN
THE PRINCESS AND CURDIE
AT THE BACK OF THE
NORTH WIND
_Illustrated in color by Maria L. Kirk. Decorated
chapter-headings and lining papers. Octavo.
Ornamental cloth, gilt top, $1.50 per volume._
----------------------------------------------------------------
OUIDA’S CLASSIC JUVENILES
A DOG OF FLANDERS
Containing also her most famous stories, “The
Nürnberg Stove,” “The Little Earl,” and
“In the Apple Country.”
BIMBI: STORIES FOR
CHILDREN
_Each illustrated in color by Maria L. Kirk. Decorated
lining papers. Octavo. Ornamental cloth,
gilt top, $1.50 per volume._
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Edited by G. E. MITTON
THE SWISS FAMILY ROBINSON
_Twelve full-page illustrations in color by Harry
Rountree. Octavo. Ornamental cloth, $1.50._
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By JEAN INGELOW
MOPSA, THE FAIRY
_Illustrated in color by Maria L. Kirk. Decorated
lining papers. Octavo. Ornamental cloth, $1.50._
----------------------------------------------------------------
By JOHN KENDRICK BANGS
MOLLIE AND
THE UNWISEMAN ABROAD
_Ten full-page illustrations in color by Grace G.
Weiderseim. Octavo. Cloth, pictorial cover, $1.50._
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By FERGUS HUME
CHRONICLES OF FAIRYLAND
_Illustrated in color by Maria L. Kirk. Decorated
lining papers. Octavo. Ornamental cloth, $1.50._
----------------------------------------------------------------
HANS ANDERSEN’S
FAIRY TALES
_Profusely illustrated in color by Maria L. Kirk.
Decorated lining papers. Octavo. Cloth, $1.50._
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J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY
Publishers Philadelphia
------------------------------------------------------------------------
[Illustration: A THRONE OF GREAT WHITE LILIES, UPON WHICH SAT THE KING
AND QUEEN OF FAERYLAND—_PAGE 104_]
------------------------------------------------------------------------
[Illustration]
------------------------------------------------------------------------
CHRONICLES OF
FAIRY LAND
BY
FERGUS HUME
_WITH ILLUSTRATIONS IN COLOR BY_
MARIA L. KIRK
_AND IN THE TEXT BY_
M. DUNLOP
[Illustration]
PHILADELPHIA & LONDON
J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY
1911
------------------------------------------------------------------------
COPYRIGHT, 1911, BY J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY
PUBLISHED SEPTEMBER, 1911
PRINTED BY J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY
AT THE WASHINGTON SQUARE PRESS
PHILADELPHIA, U.S.A.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
TO THOSE EARNEST STUDENTS OF FAERY LORE
JOAN AND JACK BURNETT
THESE STORIES
ARE DEDICATED BY THEIR FRIEND
FERGUS HUME
------------------------------------------------------------------------
CONTENTS
PAGE
KING OBERON’S LIBRARY 11
THE RED ELF 25
SHADOWLAND 47
THE WATER-WITCH 63
MOON FANCIES 95
THE ROSE-PRINCESS 109
SORROW-SINGING 139
THE GOLDEN GOBLIN 157
THE ENCHANTED FOREST 183
------------------------------------------------------------------------
ILLUSTRATIONS
PAGE
A Throne of Great White Lilies, upon which Sat the King
and Queen of Faeryland _Frontispiece_
“Yes, It Is Faeryland,” Piped a Shrill Voice 14
The Rude Giant Laughed Heartily at the Poor Elf’s Plight 32
As Tom Picked It Up He Felt that It was Filled with
Money 49
He Saw the Form of the Water-faery Glimmering Ghostly
Under the Thin White Veil 71
On Seeing Ardram She Bounded Toward Him and Put Her Arms
Round His Neck 134
One Bright Summer’s Night a Number of Faeries Flew Into
the Room 139
“I Am the Golden Goblin,” He Cried in a Harsh Voice 165
------------------------------------------------------------------------
A BALLAD OF FAERY TALES
I.
O’ER weary earth the twilight falls
The sunset fades from western skies,
Dark shadows dance upon the walls,
As from the hearth red flames arise.
This hour is full of strange surprise,
Of mystic stories sweet and grand;
And children hear with shining eyes
These Chronicles of Faeryland.
II.
So, children, gather round my knee,
And list to tales of old romance;
With stories of the land and sea
I’ll make your eyes with pleasure dance.
And if the fays are kind, perchance
You’ll see in dreams the elfish band,
Whene’er you hear with wond’ring glance
These Chronicles of Faeryland.
III.
The rugged caves where giants dwell;
The dragons guarding gems and gold;
Fair ladies who by magic spell
Are held enchained in castles old;
The handsome princes, brave and bold,
Who cross the moat by drawbridge spanned:
Such tales and more will now unfold
These Chronicles of Faeryland.
_Envoi._
Then, children, leave your books and toys,
And come to this enchanted strand;
I tell for happy girls and boys
These Chronicles of Faeryland.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
KING OBERON’S LIBRARY.
---------------------
IT was after dinner, I think, as I was seated in my arm-chair before the
fire, tired out with hard work, and therefore half asleep. All day long
it had been snowing hard, and even now, at seven o’clock in the evening,
it was still coming down in great white flakes, making the earth look
like a beautiful birthday cake. There was no light in the room, except
the red glimmer of the fire that flickered and flared on the wide
hearth, roaring up the great chimney, as if it was grumbling to itself
at having to go out into the cold, cold night.
Now, I am very fond of the firelight in a dark room at such an hour, for
it casts strange shadows, which put strange fancies into my head, and I
tell these strange fancies to good children, which pleases them very
much. For the children I tell them to are very wise, and believe in
these strange fancies, calling them faery tales, as indeed they are.
Grown-up people do not believe in faery tales, which is a great pity,
because there are many good and beautiful stories told of the faeries,
which make people who really understand them better and wiser. But all
children understand them because all children know that Faeryland
exists, and, therefore, the strange fancies called faery tales must
necessarily be true.
Well, as I said before, I was seated half-asleep in my arm-chair in the
dark, watching the fire burning merrily on the hearth, and sending out
great shafts of red light to explore dark corners, where goblins are
fond of lurking. On the roof and on the wall danced the firelight
shadows in the most amusing manner; but they are foolish folk these same
shadows, belonging to the strange Kingdom of Shadowland, which lies near
the realm of Faery; yet not mingling with it in any way, for in
Faeryland, as wise children know, there are no shadows at all.
I grew tired watching the shadow-dance, so, letting my chin sink on my
breast, I stared into the red hollows and burning caverns made by the
flames among the logs of wood. There I saw all kinds of curious
things,—turreted castles, which held enchanted princesses, broad red
plains, across which journeyed brave knights in armour, to deliver those
same princesses, and huge rocky caverns wherein dwelt cruel magicians,
who try to stop the brave knights from reaching the enchanted castles. I
saw all these things in the fire, and you can see them also, if you look
steadily into the flames at night-time, because then everything is under
the spell of faery power. But you must believe very hard indeed, as you
look, for the faeries will not let their country be seen by children who
doubt that the beautiful land exists.
There were some twigs on the logs still bearing a few withered leaves,
but, being out of reach of the fire, they were not burnt up;
nevertheless the flames made them quiver with their hot breath, just as
if they were still being shaken by the cool breeze of the forest.
Now, while I was looking at the shaking of the withered leaves, a
cricket began to chirp, and, whether it was the magic of the darkness,
or the influence of the faeries, I do not know, but I understood every
word of the song the cricket sang. Oh, it was really a famous singer,
that merry cricket, and the song it sang went something after this
fashion.
THE CRICKET’S SONG.
You can only hear my voice;
But you cannot see me.
Oh, would not your heart rejoice,
If you could but be me!
Thro’ the sultry summer hours
My shrill voice was ringing;
Now, when cold has killed the flowers,
By the fire I’m singing.
You don’t understand my song,
Tho’ so bright and airy;
For to mortals you belong,
You are not a faery.
Living now the earth upon,
Oft my life’s imperilled;
But at court of Oberon,
I’m the faeries’ herald.
If you caught me you would say,
“In the fire stick it;
In the house it shall not stay,
Noisy, noisy cricket.”
Therefore by the Faery King,
I to hide am bidden,
And you only hear me sing
When I’m closely hidden
First of all, it sounded as if only one cricket was singing, then a
second seemed to join in, afterwards a third and fourth, until the whole
forest appeared to be full of crickets.
Forest?—yes!—I was now in an old, old forest, for, as I listened to the
cricket’s song, the twigs on the logs became fresh and green, then
seemed to grow larger and larger, until they hid the red light of the
fire, and branched out with great leafy boughs into the room. I looked
up in surprise, and saw the green branches, high above my head, waving
in the soft wind, and I could hear the singing of unseen birds sound
through the chirping of the crickets. Under my feet, instead of a
carpet, there was now fresh green turf covered with daisies, and my
arm-chair was a chair no longer, but the mossy trunk of a fallen tree.
The red light glimmered behind the leaves, as though the fire was still
there, but I knew in some strange way that it was not the fire, but the
crimson glare of the sunset. A great wave of phantasy seemed to roll
through the forest, and I started to my feet, as the crickets finished
singing, with a curious sense of wonderful knowledge and vague longings.
“Dear me!” I said to myself; “this must be Faeryland.”
“Yes, it is Faeryland,” piped a shrill voice, which seemed to come from
the ground. “This is the Forest of Enchantment.”
[Illustration: “YES, IT IS FAERYLAND,” PIPED A SHRILL VOICE]
I looked down without astonishment, for in Faeryland no one is
astonished at the strange things which take place, and saw an old, old
little man, with a long white beard, sitting astride the stem of a
flower, which kept swaying up and down like a rocking-horse. He was
dressed in bright green, with the inverted purple cup of a Canterbury
bell on his head, and if he had not spoken I would not have known he was
there, so much did his clothes and cap resemble the surrounding green
grass and coloured flowers.
“Goblin?” I asked quickly; for, you see, he looked so old and ugly that
I thought he must be one of the underground faeries.
“I’m not a goblin,” he replied in an angry, shrill voice, like the wind
whistling through a keyhole. “It is very rude of you to call me a
goblin—a nasty thing who lives under the earth, and only cares for gold
and silver. I’m a faery—a very celebrated faery indeed.”
“But you wear a beard,” I said doubtfully; “faeries don’t wear beards.”
“Not all faeries,” he answered, with dignity, jumping down from his
swaying flower stem; “but I do, because I am the librarian of King
Oberon.”
“Dear me! I did not know he had a library. Do let me see it!”
“You see it now,” said the librarian, waving his hand; “look at all the
books.”
I looked round, but saw nothing except a circle of trees, whose great
boughs, meeting overhead, made a kind of leafy roof, through which could
be seen the faint, rosy flush of the sunset sky. The ground, as I said
before, was covered with daisy-sprinkled turf, and there was a still
pool of shining water in the centre, upon the bosom of which floated
large white lilies.
“I must say I don’t see anything except leaves,” I said, after a pause.
“Well—those are the books.”
“Oh, are they! Well, I know books have leaves, but I didn’t know leaves
were books.”
The faery looked puzzled.
“You must have some faery blood in you,” he said at length, “or you
would never have found your way into this forest; but you don’t seem to
have enough of the elfin nature to see all the wonders of Faeryland.”
“Oh, do let me see the wonders of Faeryland!” I asked eagerly; “now that
I am here, I want to see everything.”
“No doubt you do,” retorted the faery, with a provoking smile; “but I
don’t know if the King will let you—however, I’ll ask him when he
wakes.”
“Is he asleep?” I said in astonishment; “why, it’s day-time.”
“It’s day-time with you, not with us,” answered the librarian; “the
night is the day of the faeries—and see, there’s the sun rising.”
Looking up through the fretwork of boughs and leaves, I saw the great
silver shield of the moon trembling in the dark blue sky, from whence
all the sunset colours had died away.
“But that’s the moon,” I cried, laughing.
“The moon is our sun, stupid,” he said tartly. “I think the King will be
awake now, so I’ll ask him if you can see the books.”
He vanished,—I don’t know how; for, though I did not take my eyes off
him, he seemed to fade away, and in his place I saw the green leaves and
slender stem of a flower, with the Canterbury bell nodding on the top.
The only thing I could do was to wait, so I sat down again on the fallen
tree, and amused myself with looking round to see what kind of creatures
lived in Faeryland.
The night was very still,—no sound of cricket or bird, not even the
whisper of the wind, or the splash of water,—all was silent, and the
moon, looking down through the leaves, flooded the glade with a cold,
pale light, turning the still waters of the pool to a silver mirror,
upon which slept the great white lilies.
Suddenly, a bat, whirring through the glade, disappeared in the soft
dusk of the trees, then I heard the distant “Tu whit, tu whoo” of an
owl, which seemed to break the spell of the night, and awaken the
sleeping faeries; for all at once, on every side, I heard a confused
murmur, the glow-worms lighted their glimmering lamps on the soft mossy
banks, and brilliant fireflies flashed like sparkling stars through the
perfumed air.
Then a nightingale began to sing; I could not see the bird, but only
heard the lovely music gushing from amid the dim gloom of the leaves,
filling the whole forest with exquisite strains. I understood the
nightingale’s song just as well as I did that of the cricket, but what
it sang was much more beautiful.
THE NIGHTINGALE’S SONG.
The Day has furled
Her banners red,
And all the world
Lies cold and dead;
All light and gladness fled.
Asleep!—asleep,
In slumber deep,
Are maid and boy;
And grief and joy,
And pleasures—pains
Are bound—fast bound in slumber’s chains.
Ah, slumbers keep
The maid who sighs,
The boy who cries,
The bee that flies,
In charmèd sleep.
See how the moon shines in the sky
Her light so pale,
O’er hill and dale;
O’er dale and hill,
So calm and still,
In splendour flinging;
And Mother Earth,
At her bright birth,
Hears me the night-bird singing.
’Tis I!
Who in the darkness cry;
The nightingale who sings, who sings on high.
I call the elves
To show themselves;
They creep from tree, from grass, from flower;
In forest-bower
At midnight hour,
They dance—they dance,
All night so bright—so light;
While I the woods with song entrance.
Singing—Singing,
My voice is ringing
Thro’ the still leaves,
Till all the dark night heaves
With pain—with pain
Again—oh, sing again;
Bring joy—bring tears,
Till o’er the lawn
The red, red dawn
Appears—appears—appears.
While the nightingale was thus singing in such a capricious manner,
paying no attention to metre or rhyme, the whole glade changed, but I
was so entranced with the bird music, that I did not notice the
transformation until I found myself in a splendid hall with a lofty
ceiling, seated on a couch of green velvet. The trees around were now
tall slender pillars of white marble, and between them hung long
curtains of emerald velvet. The pool was still in the centre, with its
broad white water-lilies asleep on its breast, but it was now encircled
by a rim of white marble, and reflected, not the blue sky, but an azure
ceiling, upon which fantastic patterns in gold reminded me somewhat of
the intricate traceries of the trees. High up in the oval ceiling, in
place of the moon, there hung a large opaque globe, from whence a soft,
cool light radiated through the apartment.
As I was looking at all these beautiful things, I heard a soft laugh,
and, on turning round, saw a man of my own height, dressed in robes of
pale green, with a sweeping white beard, a purple cap on his head, and a
long slender staff in his hands.
“You don’t know me?” he said in a musical voice. “My name is Phancie,
and I am the librarian of the King.”
“Were you the faery?” I asked, looking at him.
“I am always a faery,” he replied, smiling. “You saw me as I generally
appear to mortals; but, as the King has given you permission to learn
some of the secrets of Faeryland, I now appear to you in my real form.”
“So this is the King’s library?” I said, looking round; “but how did I
come here?—or rather, how did the glade change to the library?”
“The glade has not changed at all,” said Phancie quietly; “it is still
around you, but your eyes have been unsealed, and you now see beneath
the surface.”
“But I don’t understand,” I observed, feeling perplexed.
“It is difficult,” assented Phancie gravely, “but I can show you what I
mean by an illustration. When you see a grub, it only looks to your eyes
an ugly brown thing; but my eyes can see below the outside skin, to
where a beautiful butterfly is lying with folded wings of red and gold.
The glade you saw was, so to speak, the skin of the library. Now, your
sight has been made keen by the command of the King. You see this
splendid room—it is still the glade, and still the room; only it depends
upon your sight being lightened or darkened.”
“It doesn’t look a bit like the glade.”
“You don’t think so, of course,” said Phancie kindly; “but I will
explain. The white pillars are the trunks of the trees; the green
curtains between are the green leaves; the ceiling is the blue sky; the
white globe that gives light is the moon; and the golden fretwork on the
ceiling is the leaves and boughs of the trees shining against the clear
sky.”
“And the books?” I asked quickly.
“Here are the books,” he replied, drawing one of the green curtains a
little on one side, and there I saw rows of volumes in brown covers,
which reminded me somewhat of the tint of the withered leaves.
“You can stay here as long as you like,” said Phancie, dropping the
curtain, “and read all the books.”
“Oh, I can’t stay long enough for that,” I said regretfully. “I would be
missed from my house.”
“No, you would not,” he replied. “Time in Faeryland is different from
time on earth—five minutes with you means five years with us—so if you
stay here thirty years, you will only have been away from earth half an
hour.”
“But I’m afraid”—
“Still unconvinced!” interrupted Phancie, a little sadly, leading me
forward to the pool of water. “You mortals never believe anything but
what you see with your own eyes—look!”
He waved his white wand, and the still surface of the water quivered as
if a breeze had rippled across it; then it became still again, and I saw
my own room, and myself seated asleep in the arm-chair in front of a
dull red fire. I closed my eyes for a moment, and when I looked again
the vision had vanished.
“How is it my body is there and I am here?” I asked, turning to Phancie.
“What you saw is your earthly body,” he said quietly, “but the form you
now wear is your real body—like the butterfly and the grub of which I
told you. Now, you can look at the books. You will not remember all you
read, because there are some thoughts you may not carry back to earth;
but the King will let you remember seven stories which you can tell to
the children of your world. They will believe them, but you—ah! you will
say they are dreams.”
“Oh no, I won’t,” I said eagerly, “because it would not be true. This is
not a dream.”
“No, it is not a dream,” he said sadly; “but you will think it to be
so.”
“Never!”
“Oh yes, you will. Mortals never believe.”
I turned angrily away at this remark, but when I looked again to reply,
Phancie had vanished—faded away like a wreath of snow in the sunshine,
and I was alone in the beautiful room.
Oh, it was truly a famous library, containing the most wonderful books
in the world, but none of which I had seen before, except the faery
tales. In one recess I found the lost six books of Spenser’s _Faerie
Queene_, the last tales told by Chaucer’s Canterbury Pilgrims, the end
of Coleridge’s _Christabel_, some forgotten plays of Shakespeare, and
many other books which had been lost on earth, or which the authors had
failed to complete. I learned afterwards that they finished their
earthly works in Faeryland, and that none of the books they had written
during their lives were in the library, but only those they had not
written.
You will not know the names of the books I have mentioned, because you
are not old enough to understand them but when you grow up, you will, no
doubt, read them all—not the faery books, of course, but all the others
which the men I mention have written.
In another recess I found nothing but faery tales—_Jack and the
Beanstalk_, _The White Cat_, _The Yellow Dwarf_, and many others, which
were all marked _The Chronicles of Faeryland_.
I do not know how long I was in the library, because there was no day or
night, but only the soft glow of the moon-lamp shining through the room.
I read many, many of the books, and they were full of the most beautiful
stories, which all children would love to hear; but, as Phancie said, I
only remember seven, and these seven I will now relate.
I hope you will like them very much, for they are all true stories in
which the faeries took part, and there is more wisdom in them than you
would think.
The faeries understand them, and so do I, because I have faery blood in
my veins; but many grown-up people who read them will laugh, and say
they are only amusing fables. The wise children, however, who read
carefully and slowly will find out the secrets they contain, and these
secrets are the most beautiful things in the world.
So now I have told you how I was permitted to enter Faeryland, I will
relate the stories I remember which I read in the faery palace, and the
clever child who finds out the real meanings of these stories will
perhaps some day receive an invitation from King Oberon to go to
Faeryland and see all the wonders of his beautiful library.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
THE RED ELF
I.
HOW THE RED ELF RAN AWAY FROM FAERYLAND.
FAERYLAND lies between the Kingdom of the Shadows and the Country of the
Giants. If you want to reach it you must sail across the Sea of
Darkness, which rolls everlastingly round these three strange places,
and separates them from our world. Then you journey first through the
Giants’ Country, the inhabitants of which are very like ourselves, only
larger and fiercer, with very little spiritual nature in their enormous
bodies; afterwards you pass into Faeryland, where the elves are bright,
graceful creatures, who possess forms like ours, and not a little of our
nature. Beyond lies the strange Kingdom of Shadows, where dwell things
which have very little in common with our earth; they are the shadows of
the past and the future, of what has been, and what yet shall be.
Mortals have strayed by chance into the Giants’ Country, and in old
stories we are told they have lived in Faeryland, but no living man or
woman has ever seen the Kingdom of Shadows, nor will they ever see it
during life.
Now, the Faeries, being afraid of the Shadows, never enter their
kingdom, but they also never enter the Country of the Giants, because
they despise them very much as being lower than themselves, much the
same as we look down upon the uncivilised savages of Africa. Oberon,
who, as you know, is the King of Faery, made a law that no elf should
ever go into the Giants’ Country, being afraid lest the faeries should
learn things there which would bring evil on his own land. So when the
faeries want to visit our earth, they do not cross the Giants’ Country,
but come in another way which is known only to themselves. Having thus
explained how these three countries lie, I will now tell you of a
naughty elf who, disobeying the King’s command, lost himself in the
Giants’ Country, and of the difficulty he had in getting back to
Faeryland.
The elf’s name was Gillydrop, a beautiful little creature all dressed in
clothes of a pale green tint, which is the favourite colour of the
faeries, as every one knows who has seen them dance in the moonlight.
Now Gillydrop was full of curiosity, which is a very bad thing, as it
leads people into a great deal of trouble, and although he had never
bothered his head about the Giants’ Country before, as soon as he heard
the proclamation of Oberon he immediately determined to see for himself
what the giants were like. Do you not think this was a very naughty
thing for him to do? it certainly was, but he was punished for his
disobedience, as all naughty people are sooner or later.
He spoke to two or three faeries in order to get them to join him, but
they would not disobey the King’s command, and advised him to give up
his foolish idea.
“The King is very wise,” they said, “and no doubt he has a good reason
for not letting us visit the Giants’ Country, so you ought to do as he
tells you.”
“I don’t care,” replied naughty Gillydrop; “I’m sure there is something
in the Giants’ Country the King does not want us to know, and I am
determined to find out what it is.”
So, in spite of all warnings, he spread his beautiful wings, which were
spotted silver and blue, like a white-clouded sky, and flew away through
the woods. It was night-time, for, of course, that is the faeries’ day,
but the way to Giants’ Country was so long that by the time he reached
the end of the forest, and came to the boundary of Faeryland, the red
dawn was breaking, so he crept into the bosom of a rose, and, after
getting a honey supper from a friendly bumble-bee, curled himself up to
sleep.
All through the long day, while the sun was high in the blue sky, he
slept, lulled by the swaying of the flower, which rocked like a cradle,
and soothed by the whisper of the wind and the buzzing of the bees as
they hummed round his rose-house.
At last the weary, hot day came to an end, the silver moon arose in the
dark blue sky, the wind sighing through the forest made the delicate
leaves tremble with its cool breath, and the elf awoke. He left the kind
rose, which had sheltered him in her golden heart from the heat of the
day, and flew towards the rippling stream which lies on the confines of
Faeryland. Away in the distance, he could hear the murmuring laughter of
the faeries, as they danced to the sound of elfin music, but he was too
anxious to get into the Giants’ Country to trouble himself about his old
friends.
Just as he was about to cross the boundary, the leaves of the Faery
forest sighed out the word “Beware!” but, not heeding the warning, he
flew across the stream, and found himself at last in the terrible
country where dwelt the foolish giants and the evil ogres. As he
alighted upon an enormous daisy, which was as large as a mushroom, a
voice rang out from Faeryland, full and clear, like the sound of a
beautiful bell:
“Never more come back you need,
Till you’ve done some kindly deed.”
And so when Gillydrop looked back, he saw no green banks, no tall trees,
no beautiful flowers, but only a wide grey ocean sleeping in sullen
stillness under the cold light of the moon.
He was now flying over a dreary waste plain, with great circles of
upright stones standing here and there, and a bitter cold wind blowing
shrilly across the flat country towards the sullen grey sea. Had he not
been able to fly, he would never have crossed the plain, because the
grass stood up like mighty spears, and the furze bushes were like great
trees. On every side he saw immense mountains, blue in the distance,
lifting their snowy summits to the clouds, with great trees at their
foot looking like enormous hills of leaves. There were no birds flying
in the cold air, and no animals crawling on the bleak earth; everything
seemed dead and silent, except the wind, which moaned through the mighty
trees like the roaring of oceans.
There are no towns in Giantland, because the giants are not very fond of
one another, and prefer to live by themselves in lonely castles among
the mountains. Gillydrop knew this, but, although he looked on every
side, he could see no sign of any castle, until at last he suddenly came
on one which was quite in ruins, and so tumbled down that no one could
possibly dwell in it. He flew on, feeling rather afraid, and came to
another castle, also in ruins, with a huge white skeleton lying at the
foot of a high tower, which was no doubt the skeleton of the giant who
had lived there.
Then he found a third, a fourth, a fifth castle, all deserted and in
ruins. It seemed as though all the giants were dead, and Gillydrop, in
despair at the sight of such desolation, was about to fly back to
Faeryland, when he suddenly thought of the voice which had said:
“Never more come back you need,
Till you’ve done some kindly deed.”
Poor Gillydrop was now in a dreadful plight, and, folding his weary
wings, he dropped to the ground, where he sat in the hollow of a
buttercup, which was like a large golden basin, and wept bitterly. He
could never return to Faeryland until he had done some kindly deed, but,
as there was no one to whom he could do a good deed, he did not see how
he could perform any, so cried dreadfully at the thought of living for
evermore in the desolate Giants’ Country. So you see what his
disobedience had brought him to, for, instead of dancing merrily with
his friends in the Forest of Faeryland, he was seated, a poor, lonely
little elf, in a dreary, dreary land, with no one to comfort him.
While he was thus weeping, he heard a sound like distant thunder; but,
as there were no clouds in the sky, he knew it could not be thunder.
“It must be a giant roaring,” said Gillydrop, drying his eyes with a
cobweb. “I’ll go and ask him where all his friends have gone.”
So he flew away in the direction from whence came the sound, and
speedily arrived at a great grey castle, with many towers and
battlements, perched on the top of a very high hill. At its foot rolled
the Sea of Darkness, and round the tall towers the white mists were
wreathed like floating clouds. There was a wide road winding up the
steep sides of the rock to the castle door, which was as high as a
church; but Gillydrop, having wings, did not use the road, so flew right
into the castle through an open window.
The giant, whose name was Dunderhead, sat at one end of a large hall,
cutting slices of bread from an enormous loaf which lay on the table in
front of him. He looked thin,—very, very thin,—as though he had not had
a good dinner for a long time; and he thumped the table with the handle
of his knife as he sang this song, taking a large bit of bread between
every verse:
THE GIANT’S SONG.
Oh, if my life grows harder,
I’ll wish that I were dead!
There’s nothing in the larder
Except this crust of bread.
With hunger I am starving,
And it would give me joy
If just now I was carving
A little girl or boy.
I’ve drunk up all the coffee,
I’ve eaten all the lamb,
I’ve swallowed all the toffee
And finished all the jam.
I want to get some plum-cake—
I only wish I could;
For if I can’t get some cake
I’ll die for want of food.
Here Dunderhead stopped singing with a roar of pain, for while cutting
himself some more bread, the knife slipped and gashed his hand in a most
terrible manner. A great spout of blood gushed out like a torrent and
settled into a dark red pool on the table, while the giant, roaring with
anger, wrapped up his wounded hand in his handkerchief, which was as
large as a tablecloth.
“What are you crying about, giant?” asked Gillydrop, who had perched
himself on the table, where he sat, looking like a green beetle.
“I’ve cut my finger,” said the giant in a sulky tone; “you’d cry, too,
if you cut your finger. Don’t call me a giant—my name is Mr. Dunderhead.
What is your name?”
“Gillydrop. I’m a faery.”
“I thought you were a beetle,” said Dunderhead crossly. “What do you
want here?”
“I’ve come to see the giants, Mr. Dunderhead,” replied Gillydrop.
“You won’t see any, then,” said Dunderhead, making a face. “They’re all
dead except me. I’m the last of the giants. You see, we ate up every boy
and girl that lived near us, and all the sheep, and all the cattle,
until there was nothing left to eat; and as none of us could cross the
Sea of Darkness, every one died except me, and I won’t live long—this
loaf is all I’ve got to eat.”
“Perhaps if I do a kindly deed to Dunderhead by getting him a meal, I’ll
be able to go back to Faeryland,” thought Gillydrop, as he listened to
the giant’s story.
“Well, what are you thinking about?” growled Dunderhead, cutting himself
another slice of bread.
“I was thinking how I could get you some food,” replied Gillydrop.
“What! you?” roared the giant; “a little thing like you get me food! Ha,
ha, ha!” and he thumped the table with his great fist.
Now, as he did this, everything on the table jumped up with the shock,
and so did Gillydrop, who had no time to spread his wings and prevent
himself falling; so when he fell he came down splash into the pool of
blood. He gave a cry of terror when he fell in, and after crawling out
with some difficulty, he found his beautiful green clothes were all red,
just as if he had been dipped in red ink.
The rude giant laughed heartily at the poor elf’s plight, but to
Gillydrop it was no laughing matter, for there is nothing the faeries
dislike so much as the colour red.
“Oh dear, dear, dear!” sighed Gillydrop, while the tears ran down his
face; “now I’ll never go back to Faeryland.”
[Illustration: THE RUDE GIANT LAUGHED HEARTILY AT THE POOR ELF’S PLIGHT]
“Why not?” asked Dunderhead, who was still eating.
“Because my clothes are red,” replied the elf ruefully; “no one who
wears red clothes is allowed to live in Faeryland. Cannot I clean my
clothes?”
“No,” answered the giant, taking a bit out of the loaf. “You are dyed
red with my blood, and the only way to get your clothes green again is
to wash them in my tears.”
“Oh, let me do it at once!” cried Gillydrop, jumping up and down with
delight. “Do cry, Mr. Giant, please do.”
“I can’t cry when I’m told to,” growled Dunderhead; “but if you go to
earth and bring me two nice fat children for supper, I’ll weep tears of
joy, and then you can wash in my tears and become a green beetle again.”
“But how am I to bring the children here?” asked Gillydrop, who never
thought of the poor children being eaten, but only how he could get his
emerald suit once more.
“That’s your business,” growled Dunderhead crossly, for you see he had
eaten all the loaf, and was still hungry. “I’m going to sleep, so if you
want to clean your clothes, bring me the children, and you can wash in
the tears of joy I shed.”
So saying, the giant leaned back in his chair and fell fast asleep,
snoring so loudly that the whole room shook.
Poor Gillydrop, in his red clothes, spread his red wings, and, alighting
on the beach of the Sea of Darkness, he wondered how he was to cross it,
for he knew he was too feeble to fly all the way.
“Oh, I wish I hadn’t been naughty!” he said to himself. “I’ll never see
my dear Faeryland again.”
And he cried red tears, which is a most wonderful thing, even for a
faery to do. It was no use crying, however, for crying helps no one; so
he looked about for a boat to carry him across the Sea of Darkness, but
no boat could he see.
Gillydrop was almost in despair, when suddenly the sun arose in the
east, and a broad shaft of yellow light shot across the Sea of Darkness
like a golden bridge.
On seeing this, the Red Elf clapped his hands with glee, for, being a
faery, he could easily run along a sunbeam; so, without waiting a
moment, he jumped on to the broad golden path, and ran rapidly across
the Sea of Darkness, which heaved in black billows below.
II.
HOW THE ELF BROUGHT THE GIANT’S SUPPER.
AS the sun grew stronger, the beam shot farther and farther across the
Sea of Darkness, until it quite bridged it over, and you may be sure
Gillydrop ran as hard as ever he could, so as to reach earth quickly. It
was lucky he did make haste, for, just as he alighted on a green lawn
near a village, the sun hid himself behind a cloud, and of course the
beam vanished.
Having thus arrived, Gillydrop began to look about for two naughty
children to take to the Giants’ Country for Dunderhead’s supper. He was
very tired, both with his journey across the Sea of Darkness, and with
being up all day, which was just the same to him as staying up all night
would be to us. As he was anxious to get back to Faeryland, there was no
time to be lost, so, instead of going to sleep, he searched all through
the village for two naughty children.
Now, in one of the pretty cottages there lived a poor widow, who had two
children called Teddy and Tilly, of whom she was very fond, as they were
all she had in the world to love. I am sorry to say, however, that Teddy
and Tilly were not worthy of their mother’s love, for they were very
naughty indeed, and never so happy as when engaged in some mischief.
Dame Alice, for that was the name of the poor widow, tried very hard to
improve them, but it was really a waste of time, for the harder she
tried the worse they became. They tore their nice clean clothes, worried
the cat, destroyed the flowers, ate up everything they could lay their
hands on, and altogether were a great trouble to their poor mother, who
often wondered why her children were so much worse than any one else’s.
Dame Alice, however, had still some hope that they would improve, for,
having a few friends among the faeries, she had learned that some day
both Teddy and Tilly would receive a severe lesson, which would make
them the best and most obedient children in the world.
There was a wood, not far from the village, which was said to be
enchanted, and Teddy and Tilly were told never to enter it, but this
command only made them the more anxious to disobey, and they constantly
wandered about the wood, never thinking of the faeries, nor of anything
else, except their own pleasure. On the day Gillydrop arrived, they had
been in the wood all day, gathering nuts and chasing the squirrels. Now,
as it was sundown, they were coming home to their supper, quarrelling
dreadfully all the way, which was very naughty of them after spending a
pleasant day.
Gillydrop heard them calling each other names, so he peeped out from
behind the leaf of a tree, where he was hidden, and, seeing their cross
faces, he immediately guessed that they were two children who would do
capitally for Dunderhead’s supper, so at once made up his mind how to
act.
It was now night, and, as the faeries say, night is caused by the
overflowing of the Sea of Darkness, which rises and rises when the sun
goes down, until it rolls all over the earth, and any one abroad during
the night is in danger of being lost in its black waves. At dawn,
however, the sea subsides, and vanishes altogether when the sun appears;
but when he sets in the west, it rises once more and spreads over the
earth.
Gillydrop had brought with him a withered leaf from the Giants’ Country,
which, being enchanted, would expand into a boat, and sail across the
Sea of Darkness to the Giants’ Country, for, having come from there, it
was bound to return to the tree upon which it had grown.
The Red Elf took this leaf out of his pocket, and immediately it spread
out into a great brown carpet, which he placed under a tree in the
darkest part, and then went away to entice the children on to it.
Teddy and Tilly came through the wood, quarrelling in a noisy manner,
and calling each other ugly names; not a bit afraid of the dark,
although they certainly ought to have been.
“You’re eating all the nuts,” bellowed Teddy.
“Well, I gathered them,” shrieked Tilly.
“No, you didn’t; I got most,” whimpered her brother crossly.
“Oh, you story! You didn’t,” retorted Tilly.
And then they called each other more ugly names, and fought and
scratched until the whole wood resounded with their noise, and the birds
trembled in their nests with fear.
Suddenly, in front of them, they saw a small red ball, glowing like a
scarlet coal, and it kept dancing up and down like a restless
will-o’-the-wisp.
“Oh, Teddy,” cried Tilly, “look at that pretty ball!”
“It’s mine!” roared greedy Teddy, rushing forward. “I’ll have it.”
“You shan’t!” cried Tilly, running after him. “I’ll get it.”
But the red ball—which was none other than Gillydrop—rolled and rolled
in front of the children through the dark wood, and led them deeper and
deeper into the forest, until it bounded right on to a brown carpet
lying under a great tree, where it lay glowing like a red-hot coal.
Teddy and Tilly jumped on to the brown carpet with a scream of delight,
thinking they would now seize the ball, when suddenly the sides of the
brown leaf curled up, and it lengthened out into a long boat. The
darkness under it grew thicker and thicker, the foliage of the tree
above vanished, and the two naughty children found themselves in a boat,
rolling and tossing on the black waves, with a gloomy, starless sky
above them. Away at the end of the boat sat Gillydrop, who had now
unrolled himself, and was guiding the magic skiff across the Sea of
Darkness towards the Country of the Giants.
“Oh, I want to go home!” cried Tilly, now very frightened.
“And so do I!” roared Teddy, sitting close to her.
As they said this, they both heard a mocking ripple of laughter, and saw
the Red Elf dancing with glee at the end of the boat.
“You’ll never go home again,” he cried mockingly, “because you have been
naughty, and must be punished.”
“I’ll never be naughty again,” sobbed Tilly.
“No more will I,” echoed Teddy; and they both wept bitterly.
“It’s too late now,” said Gillydrop, shaking his head. “Naughty children
always get punished.”
He might have said the same thing about himself; but then he was a
faery, and felt ashamed to tell two human beings that he had been as
naughty as themselves.
Teddy and Tilly cried dreadfully as they thought of their poor mother
waiting for them at home, and of the nice supper of bread and milk which
she had prepared for them; but their tears were all of no avail, for the
magic boat sailed on and on, though how it moved without sails or oars
they could not tell.
At last they saw a faint silver light away in the distance, and a cool
breeze blew steadily against them. The light grew larger and larger
until it spread everywhere, and they saw the shores of the Giants’
Country, with Dunderhead’s great castle hovering above them. The boat
ran right up on to the beach, and then, suddenly turning into a leaf,
contracted to a small size and flew away to another beech, but this time
the beech was a tree.
The Red Elf vanished as soon as the leaf, and Teddy and Tilly, finding
themselves alone in this dreary land, began to cry loudly. It would have
been better for them if they had held their tongues, for Dunderhead,
hearing two children crying, knew at once that the elf had brought them
for his supper, and came down to seize them before they could get away.
“Ah! this is the supper my friend the elf has brought me,” he roared,
picking up the children. “I’m so pleased! Now I’ll boil them.”
You may be sure that Teddy and Tilly were in a dreadful fright on
hearing this, as they did not want to be boiled; but, in spite of all
their cries, Dunderhead took them up to the great hall of his castle,
and set them down on the table.
They were so fat and juicy that the Giant cried tears of joy at the
prospect of having a good supper, and as his tears gushed out in a great
torrent, Gillydrop, who had been waiting for this, plunged into the
torrent to get his clothes cleaned again. Much to his dismay, however,
the more he washed in the hot tears, the redder grew his clothes, until
he was just the colour of the scarlet bean blossom.
“You told me a story,” said Gillydrop to the giant when he saw how red
he was getting.
“I know I did,” said Dunderhead, drying his eyes, for he had now wept
enough, and was growing hungry; “but if I hadn’t told you a story, I
wouldn’t have got any supper. You’ll never be green again, so don’t
trouble your head. I’m going to get some wood to cook these nice fat
children.”
On hearing this, Teddy and Tilly roared like bulls, and Gillydrop roared
too, for he was afraid he would never be able to go back to Faeryland in
his red clothes; but the giant only laughed at them, and went out to
light a fire under his big kettle.
Gillydrop was naturally very cross with the giant for having deceived
him, and determined to punish him for having done so. Bringing the two
children to Dunderhead for his supper could not be the kindly deed he
had to do, or else he would have turned green again; so Gillydrop made
up his mind to take Teddy and Tilly back to earth, and thus leave
Dunderhead without his supper. While he was thus making up his mind,
seated at one end of the table, the two children, seated at the other
end, were crying bitterly at the plight in which they now found
themselves, for it certainly is not a nice thing to be boiled for an
ogre’s supper.
“Poor mother!” wailed Tilly, weeping; “she’ll miss us so much.”
“I don’t know if she will,” replied Teddy dolefully; “we’ve always been
so naughty, I daresay she’ll be glad we’ve gone.”
“Oh no, she won’t,” said Tilly, nodding her head; “she loves us too much
for that; but if we could get back I’d be so good.”
“And so would I,” cried Teddy; and then they both wept again, while
Gillydrop, seeing their tears, wept also out of sheer sympathy.
“Perhaps the giant will only eat one of us,” said Tilly after a pause;
“so while one of us is boiling, the other must run away and go back to
comfort mother.”
“Who will be boiled?” asked Teddy sadly. “Will you, Tilly?”
“I don’t like being boiled,” answered Tilly, with a shudder. “I’m sure
it isn’t nice.”
“Well, I don’t like being boiled either,” observed Teddy. “Suppose we
draw lots who is to run away.”
“Yes, that would be fair,” said Tilly, drying her eyes; “and the one who
wins must go back to cheer mother.”
Gillydrop was quite sorry now that he had brought them for Dunderhead’s
supper, when he heard how they regretted their mother; so he made up his
mind to save them.
“You shall neither of you be boiled,” he said, walking up to them across
the table, which was like a large plain. “I will take you back to your
mother.”
“But how?” asked Teddy and Tilly, both together. “We cannot go back
across the sea alone.”
“Oh yes, you can,” replied the Red Elf. “I brought you here, and can
send you back; that is, if I only had a leaf.”
“Here is one,” cried Tilly eagerly, pulling a faded leaf out of her
pocket. “I picked it up in the wood to-day, it had such pretty red and
yellow colours.”
“Oh, that will do for a boat,” said Gillydrop joyfully.
“But it’s so small,” objected Teddy.
“I’ll make it large enough,” said the elf. “You’ll see.”
“But how can we go on without sails or oars?” said Tilly timidly.
“You don’t need any,” rejoined Gillydrop, laughing; “you know every tree
has power to draw back its own leaves. The boat we came in was a leaf,
and, as soon as it was launched on the air, it went straight back to the
tree in the Country of the Giants upon which it had grown; and as this
leaf comes from a tree on earth, it will go straight back to its tree.”
“Then we can get home,” cried Tilly, clapping her hands, “for the tree
isn’t far from mother’s cottage.”
“Mind, you are never to be naughty again,” said Gillydrop solemnly.
“Oh, no, no!” cried both children.
“And be very, very good to your mother.”
“Yes, yes! We’ll be very good.”
“Then go down to the beach by the path,” said Gillydrop, spreading his
wings. “I’ll fly down and get the boat ready; be quick, or the giant
will return.”