light the door opened softly and a little boy crept into the room. This
was Jan. When he saw the three pairs of stockings hanging by the stove,
he clapped his hands together, but softly, lest the noise should wake
the others. Then he crossed the room on tiptoe and looked hard at the
stockings. He soon made sure which pair was for himself, but he did not
take them down immediately, only stood with his hands behind his back
and gazed at them with two large, pleased eyes.
At last he put his hand up and gently touched the three, felt the little
blue pair, gave it a pat, and finally unhooked it from its nail. Then he
sat down on the floor, and began to put them on. His toe encountering an
obstacle, he pulled the stocking off again, put his hand in, and
extracted the pink sweetmeat, with which he was so pleased that he
laughed aloud. That woke up the others, who presently came in.
"Ah, little rogue that thou art! Always the first to waken," said his
mother, pleased at his pleasure.
"See, mother! see what I found!" he cried. "It is good--sweet! I have
tasted a crumb already. Take some of it, mother."
But Mrs. Wendte shook her head.
"No," she said. "I do not care for sugar. That is for little folks like
thee. Eat it thyself, Jan."
It was her saying this, perhaps, which prevented Wilhelm and Greta from
making the same offer,--at least, I hope so. Certain it is that neither
of them made it. Greta ate hers up on the spot, with the frank
greediness of a girl of twelve who does not often get candy. Wilhelm
buttoned his up in his trousers pocket. All three made haste to put on
the new stockings. The three pairs had only time to hastily whisper as
they were separated,--
"To-night perhaps we may meet again."
The pink sweetmeat went into the pocket of Jan's jacket, and he carried
it about with him all the morning. He did not eat it, because once eaten
it would be gone, and it was a greater pleasure to have it to look
forward to, than to enjoy it at the moment. Jan was a thrifty little
boy, as you perceive.
Being Christmas, it was of course an idle day. Jacob Wendte never knew
what to do with such. There was his pipe, and there was beer to be had,
so in default of other occupation, he amused himself with these. Mrs.
Wendte had her hands full with the dinner, and was frying sausages and
mixing Yorkshire pudding all the morning. Only Greta went to church. She
belonged to a parish-school where they gave Christmas prizes, and by no
means intended to lose her chance; but, apart from that, she really
loved church-going, for she spoke English and understood it better than
either of the other children. Wilhelm went off on errands of his own.
Little Jan spent the morning in admiring his stockings, and in wrapping
and unwrapping his precious sweetmeat, and taking it out of his pocket
and putting it in again.
"Why dost thou not eat it, dear?" asked his mother, as she lifted the
frying-pan from the stove.
But he answered: "Oh! not yet. When once it is eaten, it is over. I will
wait."
"How long wilt thou wait?" she asked.
Jan said bashfully, "I don't know."
In truth, he had not made up his mind about the sweetmeat, only he felt
instinctively that he did not want to hurry, and shorten his pleasure.
Dinner over, he went out for a walk. Every now and then, as he marched
along, his hand would steal into his pocket to finger his precious candy
and make sure that it was safe.
It was a gray afternoon, but not snowing or raining. Hyde Park was not
too far away for a walk, and Jan went there. The Serpentine was skimmed
over with ice just strong enough to bear boys, and quite a little crowd
was sliding or skating upon it. Jan could skate very well. He had
learned in Holland, but he made no attempt to join the crowd. He was
rather shy of English boys, for they sometimes laughed at his Hollander
clothes or his Dutch accent, and he did not like to be laughed at.
So he strolled away, past the Serpentine and the skaters, and watched
the riders in the Row for a while. There were not a great many, for
people who ride are apt to be out of London at the Christmas time; but
there were some pretty horses, and one fair little girl on a pony who
took Jan's fancy very much. He stood for a long time watching her trot
up and down, and the idea occurred to him that he would like to give her
his sweetmeat. He even put his hand into his pocket and half pulled it
out; but the little girl did not look his way, and presently her father,
with whom she was riding, spoke to her, and she turned her horse's head
and trotted off through the marble arch. Jan dropped the sugarplum again
into his pocket, and felt as if his sudden fancy had been absurd; and
indeed I think the little girl would have been surprised and puzzled
what to do had he carried out the intention.
After the pony and his little mistress had departed, Jan lost his
interest in the riders, and walked away across the park. Once he stopped
to look at a dear little dog with a blue collar, who seemed to have lost
his master, for he was wandering about by himself, and smelling
everybody and everything he met, as if to recover a lost trail. Jan
called him. He came up in a very friendly way and allowed himself to be
patted; and once more the sweetmeat was in danger, for Jan had taken it
out with the intention of dividing it with this new friend, when a
whistle was heard which the little dog evidently recognized, and he
darted off at once to join his master. So again the pink sweetmeat was
put back into Jan's pocket, and he walked on.
He had gone quite a distance when he saw a number of people collected
round the foot of a tree. A ladder was set against one of the lower
branches, and a man had climbed up nearly to the top of the tree. Jan,
like a true boy, lost no time in joining the crowd, but at first he
could not make out what was going on. The boughs were thick. All that he
could see was the man's back high up overhead, and what he was doing he
could not guess.
A benevolent-looking old gentleman stood near, and Jan heard him exclaim
with great excitement:
"There, he's got him! No, he's not; but it was a close shave!"
"Got what, sir?" he ventured to ask.
"Why, the rook, to be sure."
Then, seeing that Jan still looked puzzled, he took the trouble to
explain.
"You see that rook up there, my lad, don't you?" Jan had not seen any
rook at all! "Well it is caught in some way, how, I can't tell you, but
it can't get away from the tree. It has been there three days, they
say, and all that time the other rooks have brought food to it, and kept
it from starving. Now some one has gone up to see what is the
difficulty, and, if possible, to set the poor thing free."
"Thank you, sir," said Jan.
And the old gentleman looked at him kindly, and said to himself:--
"A very civil, tidy little lad! I like his face."
Jan had now become deeply interested in what was going on. He stood on
tiptoe, and stretched his neck; but all he could see was the man's back
and one of his feet, and now and then the movement of a stick with which
the man seemed to be trying to hit something. At last there was a great
plunge and a rustling of branches, and people began to hurrah. Jan
hurrahed too, though he still saw nothing very clearly; but it is easier
to shout when other boys shout, if you happen to be a boy, than it is to
keep still.
Slowly the man in the tree began to come down. He had only one hand to
help himself with now, for the other held the heavy rook. We in America
do not know what rooks are like, but in England they are common enough.
They are large black birds, something like our crows, but they look
wiser, and are a good deal bigger.
As the man neared the ground, every one in the crowd could see what had
been the matter with the rook. A kite-string, caught among the tree
branches, had tangled his legs and held him fast. He had pulled so hard
in his efforts to escape that the string had cut into one of his legs
and half broken it. It was stiff and bleeding, and the rook could
neither fly nor hop. People searched in their pockets, and one little
girl, who had a half biscuit, began to feed the rook, who, for all the
kindly efforts of his friends, seemed to be half-famished. The poor
thing was too weak to struggle or be frightened, and took the crumbs
eagerly from the girl's hand.
Jan thought of his sweetmeat, and took it out for the third time.
Everybody was crowding round the man who held the rook, and he could not
get near. A very tall policeman stood in front of him. Jan pulled his
arm, and when he turned, handed him the sweetmeat, and said in his soft
foreign English:--
"For the bird, sir."
"Thank you, my dear," said the policeman.
He had not understood what Jan said, and in an abstracted way, with his
eyes still fixed on the rook, he bit the pink sweetmeat in two, and
swallowed half of it at a mouthful. Fortunately Jan did not see this,
for the policeman's back was turned to him; but observing that the man
made no attempt to go forward, he pulled his sleeve for the second time,
and again said:--
"For the bird, I said, sir."
This time the policeman heard, and taking one step forward, he held the
remaining half of the sweetmeat out to the rook, who, having by this
time grown used to being fed, took the offered dainty greedily. Jan saw
the last pink crumb vanish into the long beak, but he felt no regret.
His heart had been touched by the suffering of the poor bird, and he was
glad to give what he could to make it forget those painful days in the
tree.
So that was the end of the pink sweetmeat, or not quite the end. The
kind old gentleman to whom Jan had spoken, had noticed the little
transaction with the policeman. He was shrewd as well as kind. He
guessed by Jan's clothes that he was a working-man's son, to whom sweets
were not an every-day affair, and the generous act pleased him. So he
put his hand into _his_ pocket, pulled out a half-crown, and watching
his opportunity, dropped it into Jan's pocket, quite empty now that the
sweetmeat was gone. Then, with a little chuckle, he walked away, and Jan
had no suspicion of what had been done to him.
Gradually the crowd dispersed, Jan among the rest walking briskly, for
he wanted to get home and tell his mother the story. It was not till
after supper that he discovered the half-crown, and then it seemed to
him like a sort of dream, as if fairies had been at work, and turned the
pink sweetmeat into a bit of silver.
That night the three pairs of stockings had another chance for
conversation. The blue ones and the gray ones lay close together on the
floor of the room where Jan slept with his brother, and the white ones,
which Greta had carelessly dropped as she jumped into bed, were near
enough the half-opened door to talk across the sill.
"It has been an exciting day," said the White Pair. "My girl got a
Keble's 'Christian Year' at her school. It was the second-best prize. It
is a good thing to belong to respectable people who take prizes. Only
one thing was painful to me: she wriggled her toes so with pleasure that
I feel as if I were coming to an end in one of my points."
"You probably are," remarked the Big Gray. "Yes, now that I examine, I
can see the place. One stitch has parted already, and there is quite a
thin spot. You know I always predicted that you would be in the rag-bag
before you knew it."
"Oh, don't say such dreadful things," pleaded the Little Blues. "Mrs.
Wendte will mend her, I am sure, and make her last. What did your girl
do with her sweetmeat?"
"Ate it up directly, of course. What else should one do with a
sweetmeat?" snapped the White Pair crossly. "Oh, dear! my toe feels
dreadfully ever since you said that; quite neuralgic!"
"My boy was not so foolish as to eat his sweetmeat," said the Big Gray
stockings. "Only girls act in that way, without regard to anything but
their greedy appetites. He traded his with another boy, and he got a
pocket-knife for it, three screws, and a harmonica. There!"
"Was the knife new?" asked the Blue.
"Could the harmonica play any music?" demanded the White.
"No; the harmonica is out of order inside somehow, but perhaps my boy
can mend it. And the knife isn't new--quite old, in fact--and its blade
is broken at the end; still, it's a knife, and Wilhelm thinks he can
trade it off for something else. And now for your adventures. What did
_your_ boy do with his sweetmeat, Little Blues? Did he eat it, or trade
it?"
"It is eaten," replied the Blue Stockings cautiously.
"Eaten! Then of course he ate it. Why don't you speak out? If he ate it,
say so. If he didn't, who did?"
"Well, nobody ate the whole of it, and my boy didn't eat any. It was
divided between two persons--or rather, between one person and--and--a
thing that is not a person."
"Bless me! What are you talking about? I never heard anything so absurd
in my life. Persons, and things that are not persons," said the White
Pair; "what do you mean?"
"Yes; what _do_ you mean? What is the use of beating about the bush in
this way?" remonstrated the Big Gray Pair. "Who did eat the sweetmeat?
Say plainly."
"Half of it was eaten by a policeman, and the other half by a rook,"
replied the Little Blues, in a meek voice.
"Ho, ho!" roared the Gray Stockings, while the White Pair joined in with
a shrill giggle. "That beats all! Half by a policeman, and half by a
rook! A fine way to dispose of a Christmas sweetmeat! Your boy must be a
fool, Little Blues."
"Not a fool at all," said the Blue Pair indignantly. "Now just listen to
me. Your girl ate hers up at once, and forgot it. Your boy traded his
away; and what has he got? A broken knife, and a harmonica that can't
play music. I don't call those worth having. My boy enjoyed his
sweetmeat all day. He had more pleasure in giving it away than if he had
eaten it ten times over! Besides, he got half a crown for it. An old
gentleman slipped it into his pocket because he was pleased with his
kind heart. I saw him do it."
"Half a crown!" ejaculated the White Pair, with amazement.
"That _is_ something like," admitted the Big Gray Stockings. "Your boy
did the best of the three, I admit."
The Little Blues said no more.
Presently the others fell asleep, but she lay and watched Jan as he
rested peacefully beside his brother, with his wonderful treasure--the
silver coin--clasped tight in his hand. He smiled in his sleep as though
his dreams were pleasant.
"Even if he had no half-crown, still he would have done the best," she
whispered to herself at last.
Then the clock struck twelve, and the day after Christmas was begun.
ETELKA'S CHOICE.
Etelka lived on the very borders of the Fairy Country.
It may be that some of you do not believe that there are any such beings
as fairies. In fact, it is not easy to hold to one's faith in them when
one lives in such a country as this of ours. Fairies are the shyest of
creatures; shyer than the wood-dove, shyer than the glancing dragon-fly.
They love silence, seclusion, places where they can sport unseen with no
intruding voice or step to startle them: when man comes they go. And I
put it to you whether it is likely that they can enjoy themselves in the
United States, where every forest with any trees in it worth cutting
down is liable at any moment to be attacked by an army of wood-choppers;
where streams are looked upon as "water power," lakes as "water supply,"
and ponds as suitable places for the breeding of fish; where distance
is brought near by railroads, and solitudes only mean a chance for a
settler; where people are always poking about the hills and mountains in
search of coal mines or silver mines, and prodding the valleys in hopes
of oil wells, and where silence generally means an invitation to a
steam-whistle of one kind or another?
But where Etelka lived no one doubted the reality of fairies any more
than they did that of human beings. Her home was in Bohemia, in the
outskirts of the _Boehmer-wald_, a vast, unpeopled tract of mountainous
country thickly wooded, full of game, and seldom visited except by
hunting-parties in pursuit of stags or wild boars. Etelka's people were
of mixed Sclavonic and gypsy origin. They cultivated a patch of land
under the stewardship of a lord who never came near his estate, but this
was only their ostensible occupation; for poaching or smuggling goods
across the frontier brought in a great deal more money to them than did
farming. There were three sons, Marc, Jocko, and Hanserl; Etelka was the
only girl. They were lithe, sinewy young fellows, with the swarthy skins
and glittering black eyes which belonged to their gypsy blood, and
something furtive and threatening in their looks, but she was different.
Her hair and eyes were of a warm brown, her features were delicate, and
their expression was wistful and sweet. All summer long she ran about
with her slender feet and ankles bare. A thin little cotton gown and a
bead necklace composed her wardrobe for the warmer months. In winter she
wore woollen stockings and wooden shoes, a stuff petticoat and a little
shawl. She was always shabby, often ragged, and on cold days scarcely
ever warm enough to be comfortable; but she somehow looked pretty in her
poor garments, for beauty is the gift of Heaven, and quite as often sent
to huts as to palaces. No one had ever told Etelka that she was pretty,
except indeed young Sepperl of the Mill, whom she had seen now and again
on her semi-annual visits to the neighboring village to dispose of her
yarn, and he had said more with his eyes than with his tongue!
To her family it made no difference whatever whether she was pretty or
not. They preferred to have her useful, and they took care that she
should be so. She spun and sewed, she cleaned the pots and pans, cooked
the rye porridge and the cabbage soup, and rarely got a word of thanks
for her pains. Her brothers flung her their jackets to mend or their
game to dress, without a word of ceremony; if she had refused or delayed
to attend to their wants she would have got a rough word, a curse, or
perhaps a blow. But Etelka never refused; she was a willing little
creature, kindly and cheerful, and had no lazy blood in her veins. So
early and late she worked for them all, and her chief, almost her only
pleasure was when, her tasks despatched, she could escape from the hut
with its atmosphere of smoke and toil, and get away into the forest by
herself.
When once the green and fragrant hush of the high-arched thickets closed
her in, she would give a sigh of relief, and a sense of being at home
took possession of her. She did not feel it in the hut, though she
called that home, and it was the only one she had ever known.
Did Etelka believe in fairies? Indeed she did! She had a whole volume of
stories about them at her tongue's end. Her great-grandmother had seen
them often; so had her great-aunt. The mother of Dame Gretel, the wise
woman of the village, who herself passed for a witch, had been on
intimate terms for a long time with a hoary little kobold who had
taught her all manner of marvellous things. The same fortunate woman had
once seen Rubesal, the mountain demon, and had left an account of him
and his looks, which were exactly those of a charcoal-burner. Etelka
knew the very hollow where Dame Gretel's mother used to sit and listen
to the teachings of the kobold, and could point out the ring where a
number of the "good people" had once been seen moving a mystic dance,
their wings glancing in the darkness like fire-flies. She, herself, had
never seen a fairy or a kobold, it is true; everybody was not thus
fortunate, but she might some day, who knew? And meantime she had often
heard them whispering and sighing in their odd little voices close
beside her. You may be sure that Etelka believed in fairies. It was one
reason why she liked so well to go to the great forest, which was their
well-known abiding-place.
One day the desire to escape from home was unusually strong upon her.
Her mother was out of sorts for some reason and had been particularly
harsh. Her father, who sometimes stood her friend, had gone to the
village with a bundle of hare-skins which he hoped to trade for oil and
brandy. Her brothers, who had some private expedition on foot, had kept
her running since early morning. She had grown tired and a little cross
at their many exactions, and when, finally, all was made ready, and they
set out with their guns and snares and a knapsack full of food, and her
mother, sitting with her pipe beside the fire, had fallen into a doze,
Etelka gladly closed the door behind her and stole away. The soup was
simmering in its pot, the bowls were ready set on the table. She would
not be missed. For an hour or two she might feel that she belonged to
herself.
The forest felt deliciously cool and still as she walked fast up the
little glade which led to the Fairy Spring. This was a small pool of
clear water, bubbling strongly up from a sandy bottom, and curiously
walled round with smooth stones, which seemed fitted and joined by the
labor of man, though in reality they were a freak of nature.
Etelka sat herself down on this stony rim, dipped her hands in the water
and sprinkled a little on her hot forehead. A tall spear of feathery
grass grew just by. Presently it began to bend and sway as if
wind-blown, and dance lightly up and down before her face. She took no
notice at first; then it occurred to her, as no wind was blowing
anywhere else, it was odd that this particular grass-blade should be in
such active motion.
"How queer," she said, looking hard at the grass-blade; "it seems to be
alive!"
A shrill, small laugh echoed her words, and suddenly, as if her eyes had
been magically opened to see, she became aware that a tiny shape in
green, with a pointed cap on its head, was sitting upon the blade of
grass and moving it to and fro with hand and foot. The little
countenance under the cap was full of mischief and malice, and the
bright eyes regarded her with a strange glee. Etelka knew instantly that
her wish had come true, and that at last she was face to face with a
veritable fairy.
"Oh!" was all she could say in her amazement.
"Well, stupid, do you know who I am?" asked the creature in a voice as
shrill as its laugh.
"Yes, mein Herr," faltered Etelka.
"Here you have gone about all your days wishing you could see a fairy,"
continued the small creature, "and there we were close by all the time,
and you never opened your eyes to look. How do you like me now you do
see me?"
"Very much, Herr Fairy," replied Etelka, gaining courage. "I think you
are beautiful."
The fairy seemed pleased at this compliment, which was evidently
sincere.
"Thou art a good maiden enough, as maidens go," he said, accosting her
more familiarly. "I have long had my eye on thee, Etelklein. I have sat
up in the roof-thatch and heard Jocko and Hanserl scold and hector, and
the mother order thee about, and I have noted that thou wast almost
always kind and humble, and seldom answered them back again. Thou art
neat-handed, too, and that we fairies think much of. Many a drink of
good new milk have I had, which I should have missed hadst thou
forgotten to scour the pail. So now in return I will do something for
thee. Listen.
"Thou must know that each fairy of the _Boehmer-wald_ has the privilege
once every hundred years of granting one wish to a mortal. All do not
exercise it. Some crabbed ones do not like the human folk enough to be
willing to do them a good turn, others again are too lazy or too
pleasure-loving to go out of their way for the purpose. I am neither of
these. Now, hearken. I will give thee the power that every time thou
dancest a piece of gold shall lie under thy foot--or, instead of the
gold, a flower shall spring up out of the ground; which wilt thou have?"
"Yes; which wilt thou have?" cried another sharp voice, and a second
fairy appeared, out of the air as it were, and seated himself on the
very tip of the grass-blade. "Don't be in a hurry. Think a bit before
you choose, Etelka. Why, child, what are you looking so scared about?"
For Etelka had grown pale, and had not been able to repress a little
scream at this sudden apparition. She rallied her courage and tried to
look brave, but her heart misgave her. Was the wood full of these unseen
creatures?
"It is only my gossip," explained fairy number one. "Thimblerig is his
name. Mine is Pertzal. He usually comes after me wherever I go. You
needn't be afraid of _him_. Now, gold-piece or flower--decide."