FANCIFUL TALES
[Illustration: SO MANY THINGS STOP AT NIGHT--SUCH AS THE DAY
ITSELF--THAT I THINK YOU OUGHT TO PARDON MY POOR CLOCK.]
FANCIFUL TALES
BY
FRANK R. STOCKTON
EDITED WITH NOTES BY
JULIA ELIZABETH LANGWORTHY
TEACHER IN THE CHICAGO PUBLIC SCHOOLS
WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY
MARY E. BURT
CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS
NEW YORK CHICAGO BOSTON
COPYRIGHT, 1894, BY
CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS
COPYRIGHT, 1922, BY
N. S. STOCKTON AND F. A. STOCKTON
Printed in the United States of America
[Illustration]
PREFACE
It is because I have found that children love Stockton’s stories, that
they appreciate the delicate bits of humor found in them, and enjoy
discussing the ethical questions suggested, that I have arranged in
this book a few of the favorites, easily read by children from eight to
ten years of age.
I believe, also, that children can best learn to read by reading what
is best in literature.
This little volume, then, is the result of repeated tests with children
of various ability in the reading of Stockton’s stories. The results
proved that the language is simple and childlike, the thought natural,
and the story itself intensely interesting.
Notes and suggestive questions for each story, except “The Christmas
Truants,” which is so simple that it does not seem to need them, are
given at the end of the book. These, it is believed, will be found
helpful to the teacher and pupil and aid in securing the best results.
JULIA ELIZABETH LANGWORTHY.
CONTENTS
PAGE
OLD PIPES AND THE DRYAD, 1
THE BEE-MAN OF ORN, 32
THE CLOCKS OF RONDAINE, 52
THE GRIFFIN AND THE MINOR CANON, 81
THE CHRISTMAS TRUANTS, 108
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
FACING
PAGE
“SO MANY THINGS STOP AT NIGHT--SUCH AS THE DAY
ITSELF--THAT I THINK YOU OUGHT TO PARDON MY
POOR CLOCK,” _Frontispiece_.
A BEAUTIFUL DRYAD STEPPED QUICKLY OUT, 1
ARLA AND THE SACRISTAN, 52
THEY WERE MARCHED AWAY TO THE ROBBER’S CASTLE, 108
INTRODUCTION
Joy as a factor in education is too apt to be ignored. Feeling and
pleasure are too often counted out as not being related to the needs of
the child. Good-natured merriment is hushed. School is invested with
a school-consciousness, an insupportable dryness and solemnity which
precludes the spontaneous laughter of a normal growth. Discipline is
enforced by direct didactic teaching or through sarcasm rather than
encouraged by the fun which has no sting in it.
There is no writer before the public who has added more to the
wholesome humor of the age than Mr. Stockton--no writer whose stories
are so full of pure wit, entirely free from poison, and pointing to
healthy, happy action, while probing false sentiment. What child could
fail to raise his own standard and guard himself against egotism after
following Arla through her trials in attempting to regulate the Clocks
of Rondaine? What boy could fail to appreciate the sweetness and quiet
in the character of the Minor Canon?
Every school would be the better for such reading. The notes from the
pipes of “Old Pipes” come floating down to me from the happy reading
lessons of years ago, when my own pupils loved to read the story. What
a happy mood it threw over the school-room! It is the realization of
a long hope that one of my pupils has selected this story as one that
ought to come into an inexpensive school-book where children in general
may enjoy it. And why should not children have such reading, and have
it related to school work? Why should the librarian at the public
library be the real teacher of reading, the one to whom children go to
get what they like and want? Why should the public library instead of
the school-room be the literary resort for children? Why should not
the children, who form the best part of the “reading public,” be in
intimate relation to the literary life of their land? Why should they
not get at the man who sings out of his heart because he has something
to sing? What would it mean to the children of the United States if
all the reading-books gotten up for commercial purposes were swept out
of existence and the works of good writers substituted? What would
it mean to the public? What, to teachers, authors, publishers? To the
child it would mean stores and stores of knowledge, contact with the
best life agoing, the conservation of his youth, economy of his time.
To the public it would mean a more intelligent citizenship, a happier
people, the raising of the general taste. To the teacher it would mean
relief from the drudgery of trying to make something seem good and
interesting that is often poor and inane. To the author it would mean
an audience of thousands where he is now heard by one. To the publisher
it would mean the delight of knowing himself to be patriotically
related to the public.
Success to the little book, “Fanciful Tales”! May it be followed by
companions from the best authors of the country, until there is a
complete set of “reading-books,” and the literary life of the land is
the common condition of people, and our best writers are as well known
to the millions as they are now to the few thousands who form the
reading public.
MARY E. BURT.
THE VINES, HOLBROOK, L. I.,
July 5, 1894.
[Illustration: A BEAUTIFUL DRYAD STEPPED QUICKLY OUT.]
FANCIFUL TALES
OLD PIPES AND THE DRYAD
A mountain brook ran through a little village. Over the brook there
was a narrow bridge, and from the bridge a foot-path led out from the
village and up the hill-side, to the cottage of Old Pipes and his
mother.
For many, many years Old Pipes had been employed by the villagers to
pipe the cattle down from the hills. Every afternoon, an hour before
sunset, he would sit on a rock in front of his cottage and play on his
pipes. Then all the flocks and herds that were grazing on the mountains
would hear him, wherever they might happen to be, and would come down
to the village--the cows by the easiest paths, the sheep by those not
quite so easy, and the goats by the steep and rocky ways that were
hardest of all.
But now, for a year or more, Old Pipes had not piped the cattle home.
It is true that every afternoon he sat upon the rock and played upon
his pipes; but the cattle did not hear him. He had grown old, and his
breath was feeble. The echoes of his cheerful notes, which used to
come from the rocky hill on the other side of the valley, were heard
no more; and twenty yards from Old Pipes one could scarcely tell what
tune he was playing. He had become somewhat deaf, and did not know
that the sound of his pipes was so thin and weak, and that the cattle
did not hear him. The cows, the sheep, and the goats came down every
afternoon as before; but this was because two boys and a girl were sent
up after them. The villagers did not wish the good old man to know that
his piping was no longer of any use; so they paid him his little salary
every month, and said nothing about the two boys and the girl.
Old Pipes’s mother was, of course, a great deal older than he was, and
was as deaf as a gate--posts, latch, hinges, and all--and she never
knew that the sound of her son’s pipe did not spread over all the
mountain-side and echo back strong and clear from the opposite hills.
She was very fond of Old Pipes, and proud of his piping; and as he was
so much younger than she was, she never thought of him as being very
old. She cooked for him, and made his bed, and mended his clothes; and
they lived very comfortably on his little salary.
One afternoon, at the end of the month, when Old Pipes had finished his
piping, he took his stout staff and went down the hill to the village
to receive the money for his month’s work. The path seemed a great deal
steeper and more difficult than it used to be; and Old Pipes thought
that it must have been washed by the rains and greatly damaged. He
remembered it as a path that was quite easy to traverse either up or
down. But Old Pipes had been a very active man, and as his mother was
so much older than he was, he never thought of himself as aged and
infirm.
When the Chief Villager had paid him, and he had talked a little with
some of his friends, Old Pipes started to go home. But when he had
crossed the bridge over the brook, and gone a short distance up the
hill-side, he became very tired, and sat down upon a stone. He had not
been sitting there half a minute, when along came two boys and a girl.
“Children,” said Old Pipes, “I’m very tired to-night, and I don’t
believe I can climb up this steep path to my home. I think I shall have
to ask you to help me.”
“We will do that,” said the boys and the girl, quite cheerfully; and
one boy took him by the right hand and the other by the left, while
the girl pushed him in the back. In this way he went up the hill quite
easily, and soon reached his cottage door. Old Pipes gave each of the
three children a copper coin, and then they sat down for a few minutes’
rest before starting back to the village.
“I’m sorry that I tired you so much,” said Old Pipes.
“Oh, that would not have tired us,” said one of the boys, “if we had
not been so far to-day after the cows, the sheep, and the goats. They
rambled high up on the mountain, and we never before had such a time in
finding them.”
“Had to go after the cows, the sheep, and the goats!” exclaimed Old
Pipes. “What do you mean by that?”
The girl, who stood behind the old man, shook her head, put her hand
on her mouth, and made all sorts of signs to the boy to stop talking
on this subject; but he did not notice her, and promptly answered Old
Pipes.
“Why, you see, good sir,” said he, “that as the cattle can’t hear your
pipes now, somebody has to go after them every evening to drive them
down from the mountain, and the Chief Villager has hired us three to do
it. Generally it is not very hard work, but to-night the cattle had
wandered far.”
“How long have you been doing this?” asked the old man.
The girl shook her head and clapped her hand on her mouth as before,
but the boy went on.
“I think it is about a year now,” he said, “since the people first felt
sure that the cattle could not hear your pipes; and from that time
we’ve been driving them down. But we are rested now, and will go home.
Good-night, sir.”
The three children then went down the hill, the girl scolding the boy
all the way home. Old Pipes stood silent a few moments, and then he
went into his cottage.
“Mother,” he shouted, “did you hear what those children said?”
“Children!” exclaimed the old woman; “I did not hear them. I did not
know there were any children here.”
Then Old Pipes told his mother--shouting very loudly to make her
hear--how the two boys and the girl had helped him up the hill, and
what he had heard about his piping and the cattle.
“They can’t hear you?” cried his mother. “Why, what’s the matter with
the cattle?”
“Ah, me!” said Old Pipes; “I don’t believe there’s anything the
matter with the cattle. It must be with me and my pipes that there is
something the matter. But one thing is certain: if I do not earn the
wages the Chief Villager pays me, I shall not take them. I shall go
straight down to the village and give back the money I received to-day.”
“Nonsense!” cried his mother. “I’m sure you’ve piped as well as you
could, and no more can be expected. And what are we to do without the
money?”
“I don’t know,” said Old Pipes; “but I’m going down to the village to
pay it back.”
The sun had now set; but the moon was shining very brightly on the
hill-side, and Old Pipes could see his way very well. He did not take
the same path by which he had gone before, but followed another, which
led among the trees upon the hill-side, and, though longer, was not so
steep.
When he had gone about half-way, the old man sat down to rest, leaning
his back against a great oak tree. As he did so, he heard a sound like
knocking inside the tree, and then a voice said:
“Let me out! let me out!”
Old Pipes instantly forgot that he was tired, and sprang to his feet.
“This must be a Dryad tree!” he exclaimed. “If it is, I’ll let her out.”
Old Pipes had never, to his knowledge, seen a Dryad tree, but he knew
there were such trees on the hill-sides and the mountains, and that
Dryads lived in them. He knew, too, that in the summer-time, on those
days when the moon rose before the sun went down, a Dryad could come
out of her tree if anyone could find the key which locked her in, and
turn it. Old Pipes closely examined the trunk of the tree, which stood
in the full moonlight. “If I see that key,” he said, “I shall surely
turn it.” Before long he found a piece of bark standing out from the
tree, which looked to him very much like the handle of a key. He took
hold of it, and found he could turn it quite around. As he did so, a
large part of the side of the tree was pushed open, and a beautiful
Dryad stepped quickly out.
For a moment she stood motionless, gazing on the scene before her--the
tranquil valley, the hills, the forest, and the mountain-side, all
lying in the soft clear light of the moon. “Oh, lovely! lovely!” she
exclaimed. “How long it is since I have seen anything like this!” And
then, turning to Old Pipes, she said: “How good of you to let me out!
I am so happy, and so thankful, that I must kiss you, you dear old
man!” And she threw her arms around the neck of Old Pipes, and kissed
him on both cheeks.
“You don’t know,” she then went on to say, “how doleful it is to be
shut up so long in a tree. I don’t mind it in the winter, for then I am
glad to be sheltered, but in summer it is a rueful thing not to be able
to see all the beauties of the world. And it’s ever so long since I’ve
been let out. People so seldom come this way; and when they do come at
the right time, they either don’t hear me or they are frightened and
run away. But you, you dear old man, you were not frightened, and you
looked and looked for the key, and you let me out; and now I shall not
have to go back till winter has come, and the air grows cold. Oh, it is
glorious! What can I do for you, to show you how grateful I am?”
“I am very glad,” said Old Pipes, “that I let you out, since I see that
it makes you so happy; but I must admit that I tried to find the key
because I had a great desire to see a Dryad. But, if you wish to do
something for me, you can, if you happen to be going down toward the
village.”
“To the village!” exclaimed the Dryad. “I will go anywhere for you, my
kind old benefactor.”
“Well, then,” said Old Pipes, “I wish you would take this little bag of
money to the Chief Villager and tell him that Old Pipes cannot receive
pay for the services which he does not perform. It is now more than a
year that I have not been able to make the cattle hear me, when I piped
to call them home. I did not know this until to-night; but now that I
know it, I cannot keep the money, and so I send it back.” And, handing
the little bag to the Dryad, he bade her good-night, and turned toward
his cottage.
“Good-night,” said the Dryad. “And I thank you over, and over, and over
again, you good old man!”
Old Pipes walked toward his home, very glad to be saved the fatigue of
going all the way down to the village and back again. “To be sure,” he
said to himself, “this path does not seem at all steep, and I can walk
along it very easily; but it would have tired me dreadfully to come up
all the way from the village, especially as I could not have expected
those children to help me again.” When he reached home his mother was
surprised to see him returning so soon.
“What!” she exclaimed; “have you already come back? What did the Chief
Villager say? Did he take the money?”
Old Pipes was just about to tell her that he had sent the money to the
village by a Dryad, when he suddenly reflected that his mother would be
sure to disapprove such a proceeding, and so he merely said he had sent
it by a person whom he had met.
“And how do you know that the person will ever take it to the Chief
Villager?” cried his mother. “You will lose it, and the villagers will
never get it. Oh, Pipes! Pipes! when will you be old enough to have
ordinary common-sense?”
Old Pipes considered that, as he was already seventy years of age,
he could scarcely expect to grow any wiser; but he made no remark on
this subject, and, saying that he doubted not that the money would
go safely to its destination, he sat down to his supper. His mother
scolded him roundly, but he did not mind it; and after supper he went
out and sat on a rustic chair in front of the cottage to look at the
moonlit village, and to wonder whether or not the Chief Villager really
received the money. While he was doing these two things, he went fast
asleep.
When Old Pipes left the Dryad, she did not go down to the village with
the little bag of money. She held it in her hand, and thought about
what she had heard. “This is a good and honest old man,” she said; “and
it is a shame that he should lose this money. He looked as if he needed
it, and I don’t believe the people in the village will take it from one
who has served them so long. Often, when in my tree, have I heard the
sweet notes of his pipes. I am going to take the money back to him.”
She did not start immediately, because there were so many beautiful
things to look at; but after awhile she went up to the cottage, and,
finding Old Pipes asleep in his chair, she slipped the little bag into
his coat-pocket, and silently sped away.
The next day Old Pipes told his mother that he would go up the mountain
and cut some wood. He had a right to get wood from the mountain, but
for a long time he had been content to pick up the dead branches which
lay about his cottage. To-day, however, he felt so strong and vigorous
that he thought he would go and cut some fuel that would be better than
this. He worked all the morning, and when he came back he did not feel
at all tired, and he had a very good appetite for his dinner.
Now, Old Pipes knew a good deal about Dryads; but there was one thing
which, although he had heard, he had forgotten. This was, that a kiss
from a Dryad made a person ten years younger.
The people of the village knew this, and they were very careful not
to let any child of ten years or younger go into the woods where the
Dryads were supposed to be; for, if they should chance to be kissed by
one of these tree-nymphs, they would be set back so far that they would
cease to exist.
A story was told in the village that a very bad boy of eleven once ran
away into the woods, and had an adventure of this kind; and when his
mother found him he was a little baby of one year old. Taking advantage
of her opportunity, she brought him up more carefully than she had done
before, and he grew to be a very good boy indeed.
Now Old Pipes had been kissed twice by the Dryad, once on each cheek,
and he therefore felt as vigorous and active as when he was a hale man
of fifty. His mother noticed how much work he was doing, and told him
that he need not try in that way to make up for the loss of his piping
wages; for he would only tire himself out, and get sick. But her son
answered that he had not felt so well for years, and that he was quite
able to work.
In the course of the afternoon, Old Pipes, for the first time that day,
put his hand in his coat-pocket, and there, to his amazement, he found
the little bag of money. “Well, well!” he exclaimed, “I am stupid,
indeed! I really thought that I had seen a Dryad; but when I sat down
by that big oak tree I must have gone to sleep and dreamed it all; and
then I came home, thinking I had given the money to a Dryad, when it
was in my pocket all the time. But the Chief Villager shall have the
money. I shall not take it to him to-day, but to-morrow I wish to go to
the village to see some of my old friends; and then I shall give up the
money.”
Toward the close of the afternoon, Old Pipes, as had been his custom
for so many years, took his pipes from the shelf on which they lay, and
went out to the rock in front of the cottage.
“What are you going to do?” cried his mother. “If you will not consent
to be paid, why do you pipe?”
“I am going to pipe for my own pleasure,” said her son. “I am used to
it, and I do not wish to give it up. It does not matter now whether
the cattle hear me or not, and I am sure that my piping will injure no
one.”
When the good man began to play upon his favorite instrument he was
astonished at the sound that came from it. The beautiful notes of the
pipes sounded clear and strong down into the valley, and spread over
the hills, and up the sides of the mountain beyond, while, after a
little interval, an echo came back from the rocky hill on the other
side of the valley.
“Ha! ha!” he cried, “what has happened to my pipes? They must have been
stopped up of late, but now they are as clear and good as ever.”
Again the merry notes went sounding far and wide. The cattle on the
mountain heard them, and those that were old enough remembered how
these notes had called them from their pastures every evening, and so
they started down the mountain-side, the others following.
The merry notes were heard in the village below, and the people were
much astonished thereby. “Why, who can be blowing the pipes of Old
Pipes?” they said. But, as they were all very busy, no one went up to
see. One thing, however, was plain enough: the cattle were coming down
the mountain. And so the two boys and the girl did not have to go after
them, and had an hour for play, for which they were very glad.
The next morning Old Pipes started down to the village with his money,
and on the way he met the Dryad. “Oh, ho!” he cried, “is that you? Why,
I thought my letting you out of the tree was nothing but a dream.”
“A dream!” cried the Dryad; “if you only knew how happy you have made
me, you would not think it merely a dream. And has it not benefited
you? Do you not feel happier? Yesterday I heard you playing beautifully
on your pipes.”
“Yes, yes,” cried he. “I did not understand it before, but I see it all
now. I have really grown younger. I thank you, I thank you, good Dryad,
from the bottom of my heart. It was the finding of the money in my
pocket that made me think it was a dream.”
“Oh, I put it in when you were asleep,” she said, laughing, “because I
thought you ought to keep it. Good-by, kind, honest man. May you live
long, and be as happy as I am now.”
Old Pipes was greatly delighted when he understood that he was really a
younger man; but that made no difference about the money, and he kept
on his way to the village. As soon as he reached it, he was eagerly
questioned as to who had been playing his pipes the evening before,
and when the people heard that it was himself they were very much
surprised. Thereupon Old Pipes told what had happened to him, and then
there was greater wonder, with hearty congratulations and hand-shakes;
for Old Pipes was liked by everyone. The Chief Villager refused to
take his money; and although Old Pipes said that he had not earned it,
everyone present insisted that, as he would now play on his pipes as
before, he should lose nothing because, for a time, he was unable to
perform his duty.
So Old Pipes was obliged to keep his money, and after an hour or two
spent in conversation with his friends he returned to his cottage.
There was one person, however, who was not pleased with what had
happened to Old Pipes. This was an Echo-dwarf who lived on the hills
across the valley. It was his work to echo back the notes of the pipes
whenever they could be heard.
A great many other Echo-dwarfs lived on these hills. They all worked,
but in different ways. Some echoed back the songs of maidens, some the
shouts of children, and others the music that was often heard in the
village. But there was only one who could send back the strong notes of
the pipes of Old Pipes, and this had been his sole duty for many years.
But when the old man grew feeble, and the notes of his pipes could not
be heard on the opposite hills, this Echo-dwarf had nothing to do, and
he spent his time in delightful idleness; and he slept so much and grew
so fat that it made his companions laugh to see him walk.
On the afternoon on which, after so long an interval, the sound of the
pipes was heard on the echo hills, this dwarf was fast asleep behind a
rock. As soon as the first notes reached them, some of his companions
ran to wake him up. Rolling to his feet, he echoed back the merry tune
of Old Pipes.
Naturally, he was very angry at being thus obliged to give up his life
of comfort, and he hoped very much that this pipe-playing would not
occur again. The next afternoon he was awake and listening, and, sure
enough, at the usual hour, along came the notes of the pipes as clear
and strong as they ever had been; and he was obliged to work as long
as Old Pipes played. The Echo-dwarf was very angry. He had supposed,
of course, that the pipe-playing had ceased forever, and he felt that
he had a right to be indignant at being thus deceived. He was so much
disturbed that he made up his mind to go and try to find out how long
this was to last. He had plenty of time, as the pipes were played but
once a day, and he set off early in the morning for the hill on which
Old Pipes lived. It was hard work for the fat little fellow, and when
he had crossed the valley and had gone some distance into the woods on
the hill-side, he stopped to rest, and in a few minutes the Dryad came
tripping along.
“Ho, ho!” exclaimed the dwarf; “what are you doing here? and how did
you get out of your tree?”
“Doing!” cried the Dryad; “I am being happy; that’s what I am doing.
And I was let out of my tree by the good old man who plays the pipes
to call the cattle down from the mountain. And it makes me happier to
think that I have been of service to him. I gave him two kisses of
gratitude, and now he is young enough to play his pipes as well as
ever.”
The Echo-dwarf stepped forward, his face pale with passion, “Am I to
believe,” he said, “that you are the cause of this great evil that
has come upon me? and that you are the wicked creature who has again
started this old man upon his career of pipe-playing? What have I ever
done to you that you should have condemned me for years and years to
echo back the notes of those wretched pipes?”
At this the Dryad laughed loudly.
“What a funny little fellow you are!” she said. “Anyone would think
you had been condemned to toil from morning till night; while what you
really have to do is merely to imitate for half an hour every day the
merry notes of Old Pipes’s piping. Fie upon you, Echo-dwarf! You are
lazy and selfish; and that is what is the matter with you. Instead
of grumbling at being obliged to do a little wholesome work, which
is less, I am sure, than that of any other echo-dwarf upon the rocky
hill-side, you should rejoice at the good fortune of the old man who
has regained so much of his strength and vigor. Go home and learn to be
just and generous; and then, perhaps, you may be happy. Good-by.”
“Insolent creature!” shouted the dwarf, as he shook his fat little fist
at her. “I’ll make you suffer for this. You shall find out what it is
to heap injury and insult upon one like me, and to snatch from him the
repose that he has earned by long years of toil.” And, shaking his head
savagely, he hurried back to the rocky hill-side.
Every afternoon the merry notes of the pipes of Old Pipes sounded down
into the valley and over the hills and up the mountain-side; and every
afternoon when he had echoed them back, the little dwarf grew more
and more angry with the Dryad. Each day, from early morning till it
was time for him to go back to his duties upon the rocky hill-side, he
searched the woods for her. He intended, if he met her, to pretend to
be very sorry for what he had said, and he thought he might be able to
play a trick upon her which would avenge him well.
One day, while thus wandering among the trees, he met Old Pipes. The
Echo-dwarf did not generally care to see or speak to ordinary people;
but now he was so anxious to find the object of his search, that he
stopped and asked Old Pipes if he had seen the Dryad. The piper had not
noticed the little fellow, and he looked down on him with some surprise.
“No,” he said; “I have not seen her, and I have been looking everywhere
for her.”
“You!” cried the dwarf, “what do you wish with her?”
Old Pipes then sat down on a stone, so that he should be nearer the ear
of his small companion, and he told what the Dryad had done for him.
When the Echo-dwarf heard that this was the man whose pipes he was
obliged to echo back every day, he would have slain him on the spot,
had he been able; but, as he was not able, he merely ground his teeth
and listened to the rest of the story.
“I am looking for the Dryad now,” Old Pipes continued, “on account of
my aged mother. When I was old myself, I did not notice how very old
my mother was; but now it shocks me to see how feeble her years have
caused her to become; and I am looking for the Dryad to ask her to make
my mother younger, as she made me.”
The eyes of the Echo-dwarf glistened. Here was a man who might help him
in his plans.
“Your idea is a good one,” he said to Old Pipes, “and it does you
honor. But you should know that a Dryad can make no person younger but
one who lets her out of her tree. However, you can manage the affair
very easily. All you need do is to find the Dryad, tell her what you
want, and request her to step into her tree and be shut up for a short
time. Then you will go and bring your mother to the tree; she will open
it, and everything will be as you wish. Is not this a good plan?”
“Excellent!” cried Old Pipes; “and I will go instantly and search more
diligently for the Dryad.”
“Take me with you,” said the Echo-dwarf. “You can easily carry me on
your strong shoulders; and I shall be glad to help you in any way that
I can.”
“Now then,” said the little fellow to himself, as Old Pipes carried
him rapidly along, “if he persuades the Dryad to get into a tree,--and
she is quite foolish enough to do it,--and then goes away to bring his
mother, I shall take a stone or a club and I will break off the key of
that tree, so that nobody can ever turn it again. Then Mistress Dryad
will see what she has brought upon herself by her behavior to me.”
Before long they came to the great oak tree in which the Dryad had
lived, and at a distance they saw that beautiful creature herself
coming toward them.
“How excellently well everything happens?” said the dwarf. “Put me
down, and I will go. Your business with the Dryad is more important
than mine; and you need not say anything about my having suggested your
plan to you. I am willing that you should have all the credit of it
yourself.”
Old Pipes put the Echo-dwarf upon the ground, but the little rogue did
not go away. He hid himself between some low, mossy rocks, and he was
so much like them in color that you would not have noticed him if you
had been looking straight at him.
When the Dryad came up, Old Pipes lost no time in telling her about
his mother, and what he wished her to do. At first, the Dryad answered
nothing, but stood looking very sadly at Old Pipes.
“Do you really wish me to go into my tree again?” she said. “I should
dreadfully dislike to do it, for I don’t know what might happen. It is
not at all necessary, for I could make your mother younger at any time
if she would give me the opportunity. I had already thought of making
you still happier in this way, and several times I have waited about
your cottage, hoping to meet your aged mother, but she never comes
outside, and you know a Dryad cannot enter a house. I cannot imagine
what put this idea into your head. Did you think of it yourself?”
“No, I cannot say that I did,” answered Old Pipes. “A little dwarf whom
I met in the woods proposed it to me.”
“Oh!” cried the Dryad; “now I see through it all. It is the scheme of
that vile Echo-dwarf--your enemy and mine. Where is he? I should like
to see him.”
“I think he has gone away,” said Old Pipes.
“No, he has not,” said the Dryad, whose quick eyes perceived the
Echo-dwarf among the rocks, “There he is. Seize him and drag him out,
I beg of you.”
Old Pipes saw the dwarf as soon as he was pointed out to him; and
running to the rocks, he caught the little fellow by the arm and pulled
him out.
“Now, then,” cried the Dryad, who had opened the door of the great oak,
“just stick him in there, and we will shut him up. Then I shall be safe
from his mischief for the rest of the time I am free.”
Old Pipes thrust the Echo-dwarf into the tree; the Dryad pushed the
door shut; there was a clicking sound of bark and wood, and no one
would have noticed that the big oak had ever had an opening in it.
“There,” said the Dryad; “now we need not be afraid of him. And I
assure you, my good piper, that I shall be very glad to make your
mother younger as soon as I can. Will you not ask her to come out and
meet me?”
“Of course I will,” cried Old Pipes; “and I will do it without delay.”
And then, the Dryad by his side, he hurried to his cottage. But when
he mentioned the matter to his mother, the old woman became very angry
indeed. She did not believe in Dryads; and, if they really did exist,
she knew they must be witches and sorceresses, and she would have
nothing to do with them. If her son had ever allowed himself to be
kissed by one of them, he ought to be ashamed of himself. As to its
doing him the least bit of good, she did not believe a word of it. He
felt better than he used to feel, but that was very common. She had
sometimes felt that way herself, and she forbade him ever to mention a
Dryad to her again.
That afternoon, Old Pipes, feeling very sad that his plan in regard
to his mother had failed, sat down upon the rock and played upon his
pipes. The pleasant sounds went down the valley and up the hills and
mountain, but, to the great surprise of some persons who happened
to notice the fact, the notes were not echoed back from the rocky
hill-side, but from the woods on the side of the valley on which Old
Pipes lived. The next day many of the villagers stopped in their work
to listen to the echo of the pipes coming from the woods. The sound was
not as clear and strong as it used to be when it was sent back from the
rocky hill-side, but it certainly came from among the trees. Such a
thing as an echo changing its place in this way had never been heard of
before, and nobody was able to explain how it could have happened. Old
Pipes, however, knew very well that the sound came from the Echo-dwarf
shut up in the great oak tree. The sides of the tree were thin, and
the sound of the pipes could be heard through them, and the dwarf was
obliged by the laws of his being to echo back those notes whenever they
came to him. But Old Pipes thought he might get the Dryad in trouble if
he let anyone know that the Echo-dwarf was shut up in the tree, and so
he wisely said nothing about it.
One day the two boys and the girl who had helped Old Pipes up the hill
were playing in the woods. Stopping near the great oak tree, they heard
a sound of knocking within it, and then a voice plainly said:
“Let me out! let me out!”
For a moment the children stood still in astonishment, and then one of
the boys exclaimed:
“Oh, it is a Dryad, like the one Old Pipes found! Let’s let her out!”
“What are you thinking of?” cried the girl. “I am the oldest of all,
and I am only thirteen. Do you wish to be turned into crawling babies?
Run! run! run!”
And the two boys and the girl dashed down into the valley as fast as
their legs could carry them. There was no desire in their youthful
hearts to be made younger than they were, and for fear that their
parents might think it well that they should commence their careers
anew, they never said a word about finding the Dryad tree.
As the summer days went on, Old Pipes’ mother grew feebler and feebler.
One day when her son was away, for he now frequently went into the
woods to hunt or fish, or down into the valley to work, she arose from
her knitting to prepare the simple dinner. But she felt so weak and
tired that she was not able to do the work to which she had been so
long accustomed. “Alas! alas!” she said, “the time has come when I am
too old to work. My son will have to hire someone to come here and cook
his meals, make his bed, and mend his clothes. Alas! alas! I had hoped
that as long as I lived I should be able to do these things. But it is
not so. I have grown utterly worthless, and someone else must prepare
the dinner for my son. I wonder where he is.” And tottering to the
door, she went outside to look for him. She did not feel able to stand,
and reaching the rustic chair, she sank into it, quite exhausted, and
soon fell asleep.
The Dryad, who had often come to the cottage to see if she could find
an opportunity of carrying out Old Pipes’s affectionate design, now
happened by; and seeing that the much-desired occasion had come, she
stepped up quietly behind the old woman and gently kissed her on each
cheek, and then as quietly disappeared.
In a few minutes the mother of Old Pipes awoke, and looking up at the
sun, she exclaimed: “Why, it is almost dinner-time! My son will be here
directly, and I am not ready for him.” And rising to her feet, she
hurried into the house, made the fire, set the meat and vegetables to
cook, laid the cloth, and by the time her son arrived the meal was on
the table.
“How a little sleep does refresh one,” she said to herself, as she was
bustling about. She was a woman of very vigorous constitution, and at
seventy had been a great deal stronger and more active than her son
was at that age. The moment Old Pipes saw his mother, he knew that the
Dryad had been there; but, while he felt as happy as a king, he was too
wise to say anything about her.
“It is astonishing how well I feel to-day,” said his mother; “and
either my hearing has improved or you speak much more plainly than you
have done of late.”
The summer days went on and passed away, the leaves were falling from
the trees, and the air was becoming cold.
“Nature has ceased to be lovely,” said the Dryad, “and the night-winds
chill me. It is time for me to go back into my comfortable quarters in
the great oak. But first I must pay another visit to the cottage of Old
Pipes.”
She found the piper and his mother sitting side by side on the rock in
front of the door. The cattle were not to go to the mountain any more
that season, and he was piping them down for the last time. Loud and
merrily sounded the pipes of Old Pipes, and down the mountain-side came
the cattle, the cows by the easiest paths, the sheep by those not quite
so easy, and the goats by the most difficult ones among the rocks:
while from the great oak tree were heard the echoes of the cheerful
music.
“How happy they look, sitting there together,” said the Dryad; “and I
don’t believe it will do them a bit of harm to be still younger.” And
moving quietly up behind them, she first kissed Old Pipes on his cheek
and then kissed his mother.
Old Pipes, who had stopped playing, knew what it was, but he did not
move, and said nothing. His mother, thinking that her son had kissed
her, turned to him with a smile and kissed him in return. And then she
arose and went into the cottage, a vigorous woman of sixty, followed by
her son, erect and happy, and twenty years younger than herself.
The Dryad sped away to the woods, shrugging her shoulders as she felt
the cool evening wind.
When she reached the great oak, she turned the key and opened the
door. “Come out,” she said to the Echo-dwarf, who sat blinking within.
“Winter is coming on, and I want the comfortable shelter of my tree for
myself. The cattle have come down from the mountain for the last time
this year, the pipes will no longer sound, and you can go to your rocks
and have a holiday until next spring.”
Upon hearing these words the dwarf skipped quickly out, and the Dryad
entered the tree and pulled the door shut after her. “Now, then,” she
said to herself, “he can break off the key if he likes. It does not
matter to me. Another will grow out next spring. And although the good
piper made me no promise, I know that when the warm days arrive next
year, he will come and let me out again.”
The Echo-dwarf did not stop to break the key of the tree. He was too
happy to be released to think of anything else, and he hastened as
fast as he could to his home on the rocky hill-side.
* * * * *
The Dryad was not mistaken when she trusted in the piper. When the warm
days came again he went to the oak tree to let her out. But, to his
sorrow and surprise, he found the great tree lying upon the ground. A
winter storm had blown it down, and it lay with its trunk shattered and
split. And what became of the Dryad no one ever knew.
THE BEE-MAN OF ORN
In the ancient country of Orn there lived an old man who was called the
Bee-man, because his whole time was spent in the company of bees. He
lived in a small hut, which was nothing more than an immense bee-hive,
for these little creatures had built their honey-combs in every corner
of the one room it contained, on the shelves, under the little table,
all about the rough bench on which the old man sat, and even about the
head-board and along the sides of his low bed.
All day the air of the room was thick with buzzing insects, but this
did not interfere in any way with the old Bee-man, who walked in among
them, ate his meals, and went to sleep, without the slightest fear of
being stung.
He had lived with the bees so long, they had become so accustomed to
him, and his skin was so tough and hard, that the bees no more thought
of stinging him than they would of stinging a tree or a stone. A swarm
of bees had made their hive in a pocket of his old leathern doublet;
and when he put on this coat to take one of his long walks in the
forest in search of wild bees’ nests, he was very glad to have this
hive with him, for, if he did not find any wild honey, he would put
his hand in his pocket and take out a piece of a comb for a luncheon.
The bees in his pocket worked very industriously, and he was always
certain of having something to eat with him wherever he went. He lived
principally upon honey; and when he needed bread or meat, he carried
some fine combs to a village not far away and bartered them for other
food. He was ugly, untidy, shrivelled, and brown. He was poor, and the
bees seemed to be his only friends. But, for all that, he was happy
and contented; he had all the honey he wanted, and his bees, whom he
considered the best company in the world, were as friendly and sociable
as they could be, and seemed to increase in number every day.
One day there stopped at the hut of the Bee-man a Junior Sorcerer.
This young person, who was a student of magic, was much interested
in the Bee-man, whom he had often noticed in his wanderings, and he
considered him an admirable subject for study. He had got a great deal
of useful practice by trying to find out, by the various rules and laws
of sorcery, exactly why the old Bee-man did not happen to be something
that he was not, and why he was what he happened to be. He had studied
a long time at this matter, and had found out something.
“Do you know,” he said, when the Bee-man came out of his hut, “that you
have been transformed?”
“What do you mean by that?” said the other, much surprised.
“You have surely heard of animals and human beings who have been
magically transformed into different kinds of creatures?”
“Yes, I have heard of these things,” said the Bee-man; “but what have I
been transformed from?”
“That is more than I know,” said the Junior Sorcerer. “But one thing
is certain: you ought to be changed back. If you will find out what
you have been transformed from, I will see that you are made all right
again. Nothing would please me better than to attend to such a case.”
And, having a great many things to study and investigate, the Junior
Sorcerer went his way.
This information greatly disturbed the mind of the Bee-man. If he had
been changed from something else, he ought to be that other thing,
whatever it was. He ran after the young man, and overtook him.
“If you know, kind sir,” he said, “that I have been transformed, you
surely are able to tell me what it is that I was.”
“No,” said the Junior Sorcerer, “my studies have not proceeded far
enough for that. When I become a senior I can tell you all about it.
But, in the meantime, it will be well for you to try to find out for
yourself your original form; and when you have done that, I will get
some of the learned masters of my art to restore you to it. It will be
easy enough to do that, but you could not expect them to take the time
and trouble to find out what it was.”
And, with these words, he hurried away, and was soon lost to view.
Greatly disturbed, the Bee-man retraced his steps, and went to his hut.
Never before had he heard anything which had so troubled him.
“I wonder what I was transformed from?” he thought, seating himself on
his rough bench. “Could it have been a giant, or a powerful prince, or
some gorgeous being whom the magicians or the fairies wished to punish?
It may be that I was a dog or a horse, or perhaps a fiery dragon or
a horrid snake. I hope it was not one of these. But whatever it was,
everyone has certainly a right to his original form, and I am resolved
to find out mine. I will start early to-morrow morning; and I am sorry
now that I have not more pockets to my old doublet, so that I might
carry more bees and more honey for my journey.”
He spent the rest of the day in making a hive of twigs and straw; and,
having transferred to this a number of honey-combs and a colony of bees
which had just swarmed, he rose before sunrise the next day, and having
put on his leathern doublet, and having bound his new hive to his back,
he set forth on his quest, the bees who were to accompany him buzzing
around him like a cloud.
As the Bee-man pressed through the little village the people greatly
wondered at his queer appearance, with the hive upon his back. “The
Bee-man is going on a long journey this time,” they said; but no one
imagined the strange business on which he was bent. About noon he sat
down under a tree, near a beautiful meadow covered with blossoms, and
ate a little honey. Then he untied his hive and stretched himself out
on the grass to rest. As he gazed upon his bees hovering about him,
some going out to the blossoms in the sunshine, and some returning
laden with the sweet pollen, he said to himself, “They know just what
they have to do, and they do it; but alas for me! I know not what I may
have to do. And yet, whatever it may be, I am determined to do it. In
some way or other I will find out what was my original form, and then I
will have myself changed back to it.”
And now the thought came to him that perhaps his original form might
have been something very disagreeable, or even horrid.
“But it does not matter,” he said sturdily. “Whatever I was that shall
I be again. It is not right for anyone to keep a form which does not
properly belong to him. I have no doubt I shall discover my original
form in the same way that I find the trees in which the wild bees hive.
When I first catch sight of a bee tree I am drawn toward it, I know not
how. Something says to me: ‘That is what you are looking for.’ In the
same way I believe that I shall find my original form. When I see it, I
shall be drawn toward it. Something will say to me: ‘That is it.’”
When the Bee-man was rested he started off again, and in about an hour
he entered a fair domain. Around him were beautiful lawns, grand
trees, and lovely gardens; while at a little distance stood the stately
palace of the Lord of the Domain. Richly dressed people were walking
about or sitting in the shade of the trees and arbors; splendidly
equipped horses were waiting for their riders; and everywhere were seen
signs of wealth and gayety.
“I think,” said the Bee-man to himself, “that I should like to stop
here for a time. If it should happen that I was originally like any of
these happy creatures it would please me much.”
He untied his hive, and hid it behind some bushes, and, taking off his
old doublet, laid that beside it. It would not do to have his bees
flying about him if he wished to go among the inhabitants of this fair
domain.
For two days the Bee-man wandered about the palace and its grounds,
avoiding notice as much as possible, but looking at everything. He saw
handsome men and lovely ladies; the finest horses, dogs, and cattle
that were ever known; beautiful birds in cages, and fishes in crystal
globes: and it seemed to him that the best of all living things were
here collected.
At the close of the second day the Bee-man said to himself: “There is
one being here toward whom I feel very much drawn, and that is the
Lord of the Domain. I cannot feel certain that I was once like him, but
it would be a very fine thing if it were so; and it seems impossible
for me to be drawn toward any other being in the domain when I look
upon him, so handsome, rich, and powerful. But I must observe him more
closely, and feel more sure of the matter, before applying to the
sorcerers to change me back into a lord of a fair domain.”
The next morning the Bee-man saw the Lord of the Domain walking in
his gardens. He slipped along the shady paths, and followed him so as
to observe him closely, and find out if he were really drawn toward
this noble and handsome being. The Lord of the Domain walked on for
some time, not noticing that the Bee-man was behind him. But suddenly
turning, he saw the little old man.
“What are you doing here, you vile beggar?” he cried, and he gave him a
kick that sent him into some bushes that grew by the side of the path.