steep path, followed by Tilly, both of them in a great fright lest the
giant should catch sight of them and pop them into his big kettle. When
they reached the beach, they found Gillydrop had launched the leaf,
which had now been transformed into a beautiful red and yellow coloured
boat.
“Good-bye,” said Gillydrop, as soon as they were comfortably seated in
the boat. “I’m sorry I brought you here, but it will do you no harm, as
it will teach you to be good. Mind you don’t quarrel in the boat—if you
do, the leaf will vanish, and you’ll sink for ever in the black waves.”
“Oh, we’ll be very, very good,” promised both the children eagerly, and
then Gillydrop gave the boat a push, so that it moved rapidly away from
the land, leaving him seated on the beach, a lonely little red figure.
Teddy and Tilly were rather afraid at finding themselves alone in the
darkness, but they kissed one another, and fell asleep, while the
leaf-boat sailed rapidly over the Sea of Darkness towards its parent
tree. When the children awoke, they found themselves lying on the ground
under the tree, and there above them was their red and yellow boat,
hanging, a red and yellow leaf, on a high bough.
“Now we’ll go home,” cried Tilly, jumping up; “now we’ll go home to
mother.”
“And be very good,” said Teddy, also rising.
“Yes; very, very good,” replied Tilly. And then, taking one another’s
hands, they ran home to their cottage through the dark forest.
Dame Alice, who thought they had lost themselves in the wood, was very
glad to see them, and, after she had kissed them, gave them a good
supper of bread and milk, which they enjoyed very much, for you see they
were very hungry with the long journey.
They told Dame Alice all their adventures, and she was very glad they
had gone to the Giants’ Country, for she guessed, like the wise mother
she was, that this was the lesson the faeries had foretold.
Ever afterwards, Teddy and Tilly were good children; there never were
two such good children, because they thought, if they were not good,
they would be taken back to the Giants’ Country and boiled for an ogre’s
supper. But after a time they liked to do good actions because they
found it pleasant, and Dame Alice was so pleased with their behaviour
that she made a rhyme about them, which soon passed into a proverb:
“The magic power of a faery
Cures a child when quite contrary.”
III.
HOW THE RED ELF RETURNED TO FAERYLAND.
WHEN Gillydrop saw the magic boat disappear into the darkness of the
sea, he thought that, now he had done one kindly deed, his clothes would
change from red to green, and he would be able to return to his dear
Faeryland. But nothing of the sort occurred, and the poor elf began to
cry again, thinking he was lost for ever, but this time his tears were
not red, which was a good sign, although he did not know it.
Very soon he heard Dunderhead roaring for the loss of his supper, so,
drying his eyes, he flew back again to the hall of the castle, to see
what the giant was doing. He found a great fire was lighted, over which
was suspended a great kettle filled with water, which was now boiling
hot. Dunderhead was searching everywhere for the children, and when he
saw Gillydrop he shook his great fist at him.
“Where’s my supper, you red rag?” he roared fiercely.
“Your supper has gone back to earth,” replied Gillydrop angrily, for no
one likes to be called a red rag. “You told me a story, so I thought I’d
punish you.”
“Oh, did you?” bellowed Dunderhead, in a rage. “Then I’ll punish you
also for spoiling my supper.” And before Gillydrop could fly away, he
caught him in his great hand and popped him into the boiling water.
Oh, it was terribly hot, and Gillydrop thought it was all over with him;
but, being a Faery, he could not be killed, as the foolish giant might
have known. He sank down, down, right to the bottom of the great kettle,
and then arose once more to the top. As soon as he found his head above
water, he sprang out of the kettle and flew away high above the head of
Dunderhead, who could only shake his fist at him.
To his delight and surprise, Gillydrop found his clothes had all changed
from red to green, and instead of being dressed in crimson, his suit was
now of a beautiful emerald colour. He was so delighted that he flew down
on to the floor of the hall, and began to dance and sing, while the
giant joined in as he tried to catch him; so that they had quite a duet.
_Gillydrop._ Now I’m gay instead of sad,
For I’m good instead of bad:
Dreadful lessons I have had.
_Giant._ I will catch and beat you!
_Gillydrop._ Tho’ a naughty elf I’ve been,
Now my clothes are nice and clean:
I dance once more a faery green.
_Giant._ I will catch and eat you!
But you see he could not do that, because Gillydrop was too quick for
him, and flew round the hall, laughing at Dunderhead, who roared with
anger. Then the elf flew out on to the terrace which overlooked the Sea
of Darkness, followed by the giant. Gillydrop flew down on to the beach
to escape the ogre, and Dunderhead tried to follow; but, as he could not
fly, he fell right into the Sea of Darkness. Dear me! what a terrible
splash he made! The waves arose as high as the castle walls, but then
they settled down again over Dunderhead, who was suffocated in the black
billows. He was the very last of the giants, and now his bones lie white
and gleaming in the depths of the Sea of Darkness, where nobody will
ever find them—nor do I think any one would trouble to look for them.
As for Gillydrop, now that Dunderhead was dead, he flew away across the
dreary plain towards Faeryland, and soon arrived at the borders of the
sullen grey sea which still rolled under the pale light of the moon.
Gillydrop was not a bit afraid now, because his clothes were green once
more, and he had performed one kindly deed; so he sat down on the
seashore and sang this song:
“When from Faeryland I fled,
All my nice clothes turned to red;
Now in emerald suit I stand—
Take me back to Faeryland.”
And as he sang the grey ocean faded away, and in its place he saw the
green trees of the faery forest, waving their branches in the silver
moonlight. Only a bright sparkling stream now flowed between Gillydrop
and Faeryland; so, spreading his silver and blue wings, he flew across
the water, singing gaily:
“Thanks, dear Oberon. At last
All my naughtiness is past;
Home I come without a stain,
And will never roam again.”
So at last Gillydrop got back to Faeryland after all his trials, and
ever afterwards was one of the most contented elves ever known. You may
be sure he never wanted to see the Country of the Giants again, and
whatever King Oberon said he did willingly, because he knew it must be
right.
He was quite a hero among the faeries, and had the honour of telling all
his adventures to King Oberon himself, which he did so nicely that the
King gave him a title, and ever afterwards he was called “Sir Gillydrop
the Fearless.”
------------------------------------------------------------------------
SHADOWLAND
IT was Christmas Eve, and the snow, falling heavily over a great city,
was trying to hide with its beautiful white robe all the black, ugly
houses and the narrow, muddy streets. The gas lamps stood up proudly,
each on its tall post, and cast their yellow light on the crowds of
people hurrying along with their arms filled with many lovely presents
for good children.
“They are poor things,” said the gas lamps scornfully. “If we did not
shed our light upon them, they would be lost in the streets.”
“Ah, but the people you despise made you,” cried the church bells, which
were calling the people to prayer. “They made you—they made you, and
gave you your beautiful yellow crowns.”
But the street lamps said nothing, because they could not deny what the
church bells said, and instead of acknowledging that they owed all their
beauty to the people they despised, remained obstinately silent.
Near one of these lamp-posts, at the end of a street, stood a
ragged boy, who shivered dreadfully in his old clothes, and stamped
about to keep himself warm. The boy’s name was Tom, and he was a
crossing-sweeper, as could be seen by his well-worn broom. He was very
cold and very hungry, for he had not earned a copper all day, and the
gaily-dressed army of people swept selfishly past him, thinking only of
their Christmas dinners and warm homes.
The snowflakes fell from the leaden-coloured sky like great white
angels, to tell the earth that Christ would be born again on that night,
but Tom did not have any such ideas, as he was quite ignorant of angels,
and even of the birth of the child-Christ. He only looked upon the snow
as a cold and cruel thing, which made him shiver with pain, and was a
great trouble to brush away from his crossing.
[Illustration]
And overhead the mellow bells clashed out their glad tidings in the
bitterly chill air, while below, in the warm, well-lighted churches, the
organ rolled out its hymns of praise, and the worshippers said to one
another, “Christ is born again.”
But poor Tom!
Ah, how cold and hungry he was, standing in the bright glare of the
lamp, with his rags drawn closely round him for protection against the
falling snow. The throng of people grew thinner and thinner, the
gaily-decorated shops put up their shutters, the lights died out in the
painted windows of the churches, the bells were silent, and only poor
Tom remained in the deserted, lonely streets, with the falling
snowflakes changing him to a white statue.
He was thinking about going to his garret, when a gentleman, wrapped in
furs, passed along quickly, and just as he came near Tom, dropped his
purse, but, not perceiving his loss, walked on rapidly through the
driving snow. Tom’s first idea was to pick the purse up and restore it
to its owner, whom Tom knew very well by sight, for he was a poet, who
daily passed by Tom’s crossing. Then Tom paused for a moment as he
thought of all the beautiful things the money in that purse would buy;
while he hesitated, the poet disappeared in the darkness of the night,
so Tom was left alone with the purse at his feet.
[Illustration]
There it lay, a black object on the pure white snow, and as Tom picked
it up, he felt that it was filled with money. Oh, how many things of use
to him could that money buy—bread and meat and a cup of warm
coffee—which would do him good. Tom slipped it into his pocket, and
thought he would buy something to eat; but just at that moment he seemed
to hear a whisper in the air,—
[Illustration: AS TOM PICKED IT UP HE FELT THAT IT WAS FILLED WITH
MONEY]
“Thou shalt not steal.”
With a start of terror Tom looked around, thinking a policeman had
spoken, and would take him off to prison for stealing the purse, but no
policeman was in sight. He saw nothing but the whirling flakes and his
ragged shadow cast blackly on the white snow by the light of the lamp.
It could not have been the shadow speaking, as Tom thought, for he knew
that shadows never speak; but, ah! he did not know the many wonderful
things there are in this wonderful world of ours.
Whoever had made the remark touched Tom’s heart, for he remembered how
his poor mother had blessed him when she died, and told him to be an
honest boy. It certainly would not be honest to steal money out of the
purse, but Tom was so cold and hungry that he half thought he would do
so. He took out the purse again and looked at its contents—four shining
sovereigns and some silver. Then he put it back in his pocket, and
trudged home with his broom under his arm.
Home!—ah, what a dreary, cheerless home it was!—nothing but a garret on
the top of an old house—a bare garret, with no table or chairs, but only
the sacks upon which Tom slept at night.
He closed the door, and then lighted a little bit of candle he had
picked up in the streets with one of the matches from a box given him by
a ragged match-seller.
Tom placed the candle on the floor, and, kneeling down, opened the purse
to look at the money once more. Oh, how tempted he was to take one of
those shillings and buy some food and wood—it would be a merry Christmas
for him then! Other people were enjoying their Christmas, and why should
he not do the same? The great poet who had dropped the purse had plenty
of money, and would never miss this small sum; so Tom, desperate with
hunger, took a shilling, and, hiding the purse under his bed, was about
to blow out the candle before creeping down-stairs to buy some food,
when he heard a soft voice whisper,—
“Don’t go, Tom.”
[Illustration]
He turned round, and there was the shadow cast by the reflection of the
candle-light on the wall. It was a very black shadow, much blacker than
Tom had ever seen before, and as he looked it grew blacker and blacker
on the wall, then seemed to grow out of it until it left the wall
altogether, and stood by itself in the centre of the floor, a waving,
black shadow of a ragged boy. Curiously enough, however, Tom could not
see its face, but only the outline of its whole figure, yet it stood
there shaking with every flicker of the candle, and Tom could feel that
its eyes were looking right into him.
“Don’t go, Tom,” said the shadow, in a voice so like his own that he
started. “If you go, you will be lost for ever.”
“Lost?” said Tom, with a laugh; “why, I couldn’t lose myself. I know
every street in the city.”
“I don’t mean really lost,” replied the shadow; “but it will be your
first step on the downward path.”
“Who are you?” asked Tom, rather afraid of the shadow, but keeping a
bold front.
“I am your shadow,” it replied, sighing. “I follow you wherever you go,
but only appear when there is light about you. If you had not lighted
that candle I would not have appeared, nor could I have spoken.”
“Was it you who spoke at the lamp-post?” said Tom doubtfully.
“Yes, it was I,” answered the shadow. “I wanted to save you then, as I
do now, from committing a crime. Sit down, Tom, and let us talk.”
Tom sat down, and the shadow sat down also. Then for the first time he
caught a passing glimpse of its face, just like his own, only the eyes
were sad—oh, so sad and mournful!
“Thou shalt not steal,” said the shadow solemnly.
“I don’t want to steal,” replied Tom sulkily; “but I’m cold and hungry.
This shilling would buy me fire and food. I don’t call that stealing.”
“Yes, but it is stealing,” answered the shadow, wringing its hands; “and
you know it is. If you steal you will be put in prison, and then I shall
have to go also. Think of that, Tom, think of that.”
Tom did not say a word, but sat on the floor looking at the bright
shilling in his hand which could procure him so many comforts. The
shadow saw how eager he was to take the shilling, and, with a sigh,
began to talk again.
“Think of your mother, Tom,” it said softly. “She was the wife of a
gentleman—your father; but he lost all his money, and when he died she
could get no one to help her. Do you remember how she died herself in
this very place, and how she implored you with her last breath to be an
honest boy?”
“Yes, I remember,” said Tom huskily; “but she did not know how cold and
hungry I would be.”
“Yes she did—she did,” urged the shadow. “She also had felt cold and
hunger, but she never complained. She never stole, and now she has her
reward, because she is a bright angel.”
“I don’t know what an angel is,” said Tom crossly; “but if she’s all
right, why doesn’t she help me?”
“She does help you, Tom,” said the shadow; “and it was because she saw
you were tempted to steal to-night that she asked me to help you. She
cannot speak as I do, because she is not a shadow.”
“Well, help me if you’re able,” said Tom defiantly; “but I don’t believe
you can.”
The candle on the floor had burnt very low, and as Tom said the last
words his shadow bent nearer and nearer, until he again saw those
mournful eyes, which sent a shiver through his whole body. It stretched
out its arms, and Tom felt them close round him like soft, clinging
mist; the candle flared up for a moment, and then went out, leaving Tom
in darkness altogether. But he did not feel a bit afraid, for the soft
arms of the shadow were round him, and he felt that it was carrying him
through the air.
They journeyed for miles and miles, but Tom knew not which direction
they were taking until a soft light seemed to spread all around, and Tom
felt that he was in the midst of a large crowd, although he saw no one
near him. Then he felt his bare feet touch some soft, cloudy ground,
that felt like a sponge; the shadowy arms unclasped themselves, and he
heard a voice, soft as the whispering of winds in summer, sigh,—
“This is the Kingdom of Shadows.”
Then Tom’s eyes became accustomed to the subdued twilight, and he saw on
every side a number of shadows hurrying hither and thither. He seemed to
be in the centre of a wide plain, over which hung a pale white mist,
through which glimmered the soft light. The shadows were all gliding
about this plain; some thin, some fat, some tall, others short; they all
appeared to have business to do, and each appeared to be intent only on
his own concerns. Tom’s own shadow kept close to him, and whispered
constantly in his ear of strange doings.
“These are the shadows of the past and of the future,” it sighed; “all
the shadows of human beings and their doings are here; see, there is a
funeral.”
And a funeral it was which came gliding over the smooth, white plain;
the great black hearse, the dark horses with nodding plumes, and then a
long train of mourners; all this came out of the mist at one end, glided
slowly over the plain, and vanished in the veil of mist at the other.
Then a bridal procession appeared; afterwards a great army, clashing
cymbals and blowing trumpets from whence no sound of music proceeded;
then the coronation triumph of a king, and later on a confused multitude
of men, women, and children, all hurrying onward with eager rapidity.
But they all came out of the mist and went into the mist, only appearing
on the white plain for a few minutes, like the shadows of a magic
lantern.
“The stage of the world,” whispered Tom’s shadow. “Birth, death, and
marriage, triumphs and festivities, joys and sorrows, all pass from mist
to mist, and none know whence they come or whither they go.”
“But what has this got to do with me?” asked Tom, who was feeling rather
bewildered.
“You are a man,” said his shadow reproachfully, “and must take an
interest in all that men do; but come, and I will show you what will
happen if you steal the purse.”
They glided over the plain towards the distant curtain of mist, but how
they travelled over the immense distance so rapidly Tom did not know,
for in a moment it seemed to him that he had come many miles, and found
himself suddenly before a grey, misty veil, with his own shadow beside
him, and many other shadows around.
As he stood there, a whisper like the murmur of the sea on a pebbly
beach sounded in his ears, and he seemed to guess, rather than hear,
what the shadows said.
“Now he will see—now he will see—he must choose the good or the bad.
Which will he choose?—which will he choose?”
Then the grey veil stirred, as if shaken by a gentle wind, and, blowing
aside, disclosed what seemed to Tom to be a great sheet of ice of
dazzling whiteness set up on end. As he looked, however, shadows began
to appear on the milky surface which acted a kind of play and then
vanished, and in the play he was always the central figure.
First he saw himself pick up the purse in the snowy street; then hide it
in his bed. He saw his ragged shadow glide down-stairs from the garret
to buy food; the shopman looking at him, then at the shilling; then a
policeman arresting him and finding the purse hidden in the bed.
Afterwards he saw himself in prison; then released, and prowling about
the streets. Years seemed to pass as he looked, and his shadow became
taller and stouter, but always wearing a ragged dress. After many years
he seemed to see his shadow breaking into a house—meet the owner of the
house, and kill him. Afterwards the shadow of himself stood in the dock;
then crouched in prison; and, last of all, he appeared standing under a
black gallows with a rope round his neck. At length all the shadows
vanished, and the surface of the ice mirror again became stainless,
whilst a voice whispered in his ear, “All this will happen if you steal
the purse.”
Then the shadows again came on to the mirror and acted another play; but
this time it was much more pleasant.
[Illustration]
Tom saw his shadow representative take the purse back to the poet who
had lost it. Then he saw himself in a school, learning all kinds of
wonderful things; and the years rolled by, as they had done in the other
play, unfolding the shadows of a beautiful life. He saw himself become a
great and famous poet, who wrote beautiful books to make people wise and
good. Then he saw himself in church, with a woman’s shadow by his
side, and he knew, in some mysterious way, that it was the daughter of
the poet who had lost the purse. And as the happy years rolled on he saw
himself rich and honourable, and the end of all was a magnificent
funeral, taking his body to be buried in the great church wherein many
famous men were laid. Then the shadows vanished, and the mirror became
pure again, while over it the grey mists fell like a soft veil, and once
more the voice of his shadow said,—
“All this will happen if you remain honest.”
Then the crowd of shadows around Tom looked at him with their mournful
eyes, and a whispering question ran through the fantastic throng,—
“Which will he choose?—which will he choose?”
“I will choose the honest life,” cried Tom loudly. “Yes, I will give
back the purse to the poet.”
At this the shadows around seemed to rejoice, and he could see beautiful
faces smiling at him from amid the crowd. The shadow multitude broke in
a wild dance of joy, keeping time to some aerial music which Tom could
not hear; and his own shadow, with happiness shining out of its mournful
eyes, threw its arms round him once more. A dark veil seemed to fall
over him, and the great white plain, the glimmering mists, and the
restless shadows, vanished together.
When Tom opened his eyes again, he found himself lying on the floor of
his garret, cold and hungry still, but with his heart filled with a
great joy, for the shilling was still clutched in his hand, and he knew
he had not stolen the money. He took the purse from under the sacks,
replaced the shilling, and then went out, in the bright sunshine of the
Christmas morning, to give back the lost purse to its owner.
Overhead the bells rang out merrily, as if they were rejoicing at Tom’s
victory over himself, and a beautiful lady, who was on her way to
church, gave Tom some money to get food. He went and bought a loaf and a
cup of coffee, then, thankful for his good fortune, he trudged off to
the poet’s house.
[Illustration]
The great poet received him very kindly, and, after thanking Tom for
returning his purse, asked him why he had done so instead of keeping it?
Whereupon Tom told the poet all about the shadow, which interested the
poet very much. He also had been to Shadowland and seen strange things,
which he told to the world in wonderful verse.
“This boy is a genius,” he said to his wife, “and I must help him.”
Then it all happened as the magic mirror had foretold, for Tom was put
to school by the kind poet, and became a very clever man. He also wrote
poems, which the world received with joy; and when he became a famous
man, the kind poet gave him his own daughter in marriage, and the bells
which had rang the birth of the child-Christ when Tom was a poor ragged
boy, now rang out joyously in honour of his marriage.
“He has conquered,” they clashed out in the warm, balmy air; “he is the
victor, and now he will be happy.”
And he was happy, very very happy, and felt deeply thankful to the
shadow who had shown him the way to be happy. His own shadow never left
him, but it never spoke to him again, though when Tom felt tempted to do
wrong, he heard a whisper advising him to do right. Some people said
that this was the voice of conscience, but Tom knew it was the voice of
his dear shadow, who still watched over him.
And one day he took his wife to the garret where he had lived when a
poor boy, and told her how he had been to Shadowland, and learned that
to be honest and noble was the only true way to happiness. His wife
laughed, and said Tom had been dreaming; but Tom shook his head, and
said that it was no dream, but a great truth.
Now, who do you think was right—Tom or his wife?
------------------------------------------------------------------------
THE WATER-WITCH
I.
FIRE AND WATER.