center of the wide earthen floor a stone fireplace, and there
over some blazing fagots stood a great iron kettle; beside it two
ruddy-faced girls were hard at work stirring the long marsh grass that
was boiling for the cows’ supper. Elsa would have very much liked to
make herself known to these girls, for she was used to doing things
openly and did not at all enjoy hiding there in the corner; but then
she thought of the precious rune and the possibility that they might
stop her journey, and so she remained quiet. As she nestled down in the
soft, warm hay, however, she thought to herself that they could not
possibly mind having a little girl sleep in it for just one night, and
so reasoning she kept on drowsily watching the movements of the two
girls.
After a while they dipped out the soft food and fed the cows; and then,
when they had milked them, one of the girls poured out a bowlful of new
milk and set it beside the stone hearth, and then they both went off
singing toward the house.
Now Elsa knew, as every little Finnish farm girl knows, that the fresh
milk was set there for the fairies; for should any roving band of elfin
people chance to wander thither, they might be vexed and do mischief
if they did not find a fresh, sweet draft awaiting them. So Elsa felt
quite safe, sure that the fairies would not trouble her; and, by and
by, lulled by the soft breathing of the cows, she fell asleep.
Very early in the morning she awoke, and though at first much
bewildered, she soon remembered everything, and determined to slip away
before any one should find her.
So fastening her cloak and taking her little belongings, she again set
forth. As she stepped out in the early morning light, a white frost
glittered over the fields; and as she gazed around seeking the road,
she saw a faintly-marked path that seemed to lead to the highway. She
made a little breakfast from the things she found in her basket, and
then walked on; but the path, instead of leading to the highroad,
took her farther and farther from it, for she did not know that the
farm whither the cows had led her was a long distance from the way she
wished to follow.
Indeed Elsa was lost; and as she went on the country grew wilder and
more rugged. Before she knew it the path had disappeared altogether and
she could find no trace of it; and as far as she could see, there was
no living being near.
All the while she was becoming more and more frightened, yet still
bravely she went on, vainly seeking the road. Before long she came to a
dense wood of firs, and thinking that perhaps the way lay just beyond,
she slowly entered the forest, stepping timidly between the dark
resinous trees. Once or twice she trembled as a fox crossed her path,
but, by and by, as she looked ahead, her heart fairly stood still with
terror. For there in the distance, where a great ledge of rocks cropped
out of the ground, she saw a large brown something; and the more she
looked the more certain she felt that it was a bear.
And true enough, it was a bear, “honey-paw,” as Elsa would have said,
for so the Finlanders call the brown bear, because of his great liking
for wild honey. Now, as it happened, this particular honey-paw was for
the time so intent upon his own affairs that at first he did not see
Elsa. He was walking carefully round and round the great mass of rock,
hunting a good spot where he might curl up, bear fashion, and sleep
through the coming winter. He had been looking at these rocks for many
days, as is the custom of bears, trying to decide which of the little
caves they offered would suit him best for his long sleep; and he was
still perplexed about it when he happened to look in Elsa’s direction.
The little girl was standing still, frozen with terror, when he saw
her. Perhaps he would not have noticed her had it not been for the red
hood she wore, which, of course, could be seen for a long distance.
When honey-paw realized, however, that some one was looking at him,
he was greatly displeased; for when bears are selecting their winter
hiding places they like to keep the matter as secret as possible. So
with a little growl of resentment he started toward her. At this Elsa
uttered a scream and, dropping her basket, took to her heels, running
as fast as she could, she knew not whither. The bear followed, at an
awkward pace, but when he came up and sniffed at her basket she was
already far in the distance.
As good fortune would have it, in her wild flight Elsa had come to the
edge of one of the great bogs that cover so large a part of Finland,
and her light steps had taken her some distance over its uncertain
surface. On she went, springing lightly from tussock to tussock of the
coarse grass, till at last she reached a little space of firmer ground,
and sank down, exhausted, upon the fallen trunk of a willow tree.
Meantime honey-paw also had come to the edge of the bog, but after
a few cautious steps had found himself too heavy to gain a foothold
on the soft ground, so with another sniff or two he turned about and
trotted off.
When Elsa saw him going away, she was so worn out with fright, and so
very tired, that she did just what any other little girl would have
done: she began to cry, and cried and cried as if her heart would
break. She sat there sobbing a long time, and was quite sure she would
have to stay in that little spot the rest of her life, till the wicked
bog witches found her or the bears ate her up; for she did not think
she could ever venture on alone.
Indeed she cried so hard that she did not notice that she was quite
near the bank of a good-sized river that flowed to the east, nor did
she know that after a while a large flat-boat drifted in sight. It was
laden with a great number of bark-bound barrels, and on the deck a man
stood guiding the boat with a long pole. As it floated slowly along,
the boatman saw Elsa, and called out in surprise.
“Ho, little one! what dost thou in yonder bog? Art lost?” When Elsa
heard him, she quickly looked up, and begged piteously that he take her
away from that dangerous spot!
“That will I do right gladly,” said he; and directing her how to reach
the bank in safety, he guided his boat to land and then helped Elsa
aboard.
He gave her a little box on which to sit, and told her that the heavy
barrels arranged in rows in the boat were filled with turpentine which
he was floating down the river from the pine woods farther inland. Then
looking curiously at Elsa, who sat there still tightly holding her
little kantele, which she had unconsciously kept through her flight
from honey-paw, he said:
“But who art thou, little one?”
The man had a good face and a kindly manner that quite reassured
Elsa, who, now that her fear of the bear was relieved, had begun to
wonder who her companion might be. When she told him her name, “Ah,” he
exclaimed, “I know thy father well! But whither art thou going all by
thyself?”
When Elsa told him of her journey to the peasant Ulricborg, he looked
astonished, but told her to have no fear, as he would see her safely to
the Ulricborg home, which was down the very river on which they were
floating, and at no great distance from the bank.
As the boat glided along Elsa’s new friend beguiled the time by telling
her of the great pine forests whence he had come, and explaining how
the pitch and turpentine were harvested. After a while when he asked
if she would sing him a little song, she gladly assented; and striking
the strings of her little harp, she sang a Finnish boat-song, her voice
ringing out clear and sweet on the frosty air, through which some big
snowflakes were beginning to fall. She had scarcely finished her song
when she noticed that they were no longer in the center of the stream,
but that the boatman was deftly turning his craft sidewise and guiding
it toward the bank.
In a few minutes he had made it fast to a stout oak tree that grew
near the water’s edge, and then helping Elsa out, he took her hand and
led her up a narrow path between tall grasses and yellowing willows;
then turning into a lane they came toward a small weather-beaten house
standing in the midst of a little group of fir trees. The door stood
open, and a short distance from the house they spied a bent old woman
gathering pine cones in the forest close by. She had her apron filled,
and presently, turning around and seeing her visitors, she straightened
herself as best she could and came toward them with greetings. As she
drew near, Elsa saw that her face was withered and wrinkled, and her
hands brown with toil.
“Good morrow, Dame Ulricborg!” said the boatman, “and how fares thy
goodman to-day?”
“Ah,” answered the dame, “he is very weak and grows more feeble every
day. This twelve-month past he hath scarce left his bed, and ’tis weary
work for an old woman to keep the kettle boiling and the thatch mended
over our heads.”
“True,” said the boatman, sympathetically, “thou hast done well, Dame
Ulricborg!” Then looking down at Elsa, he added: “Here is a little girl
come to see thee.”
The old dame looked curiously at Elsa; then, as the latter held up her
little skirt and asked the dame if she might not help carry the cones,
she grew more kindly and led the way to the house. But the boatman,
seeing Elsa thus safe at her journey’s end, bade them good by and
hastened back to his boat.
Now, Dame Ulricborg very much wondered what the little girl could
possibly wish with her; but as it is considered unkind to question a
guest as to his coming, she said nothing, but waited for Elsa to make
known her errand.
[Illustration]
As they drew near the door of the house, Elsa hastened to explain to
her how she had come, and how she hoped to learn the rune from the lips
of the aged peasant Ulricborg. At this the old woman, who had listened
attentively, shook her head.
“Ah, little one,” said she, “thou little knowest how feeble he hath
grown! He hath strange fancies, too, and I doubt if he will wish to let
thee learn it. He hath never been willing to teach it to any one. But,”
she added, “thou canst at least ask, if thou wishest.”
By this time they had reached the threshold of Dame Ulricborg’s home,
and stepped within. The house was bare, but not uncomfortable; some
rings of flat-bread hung from the ceiling; there was a spinning-wheel,
two or three benches, and, on the wall over the fireplace, a kantele.
The dame told Elsa to draw one of the benches near the fire and warm
herself, while she went into the next room to see how her sick husband
fared, as she had been obliged to leave him all alone when she went to
gather the cones.
By and by the dame came back, and shaking her head sadly, said to Elsa:
“Nay, to-day ’tis useless; his thoughts are wandering and he will
notice nothing. ’Tis often so when he grows overweary. But thou must
bide the night with us, and it may be in the morning he will be better.”
So Elsa helped Dame Ulricborg build up the fire till it blazed brightly
with the crackling resinous cones, and then as the afternoon waned, she
made herself useful in many little ways as they set out their simple
evening meal.
Elsa thought no _pimea_ and black bread had ever tasted quite so good,
for she was very hungry after her long day, and Dame Ulricborg smiled
at her enjoyment. Indeed by the time Elsa crept into the queer little
cupboard bed that the dame spread for her, she had so won the latter’s
heart that she bent over and kissed the little girl with a pathetic
tenderness; for it had been a long, long time since poor old Dame
Ulricborg had had any young life about her. Her own little girl had
slept in the village churchyard for many years.
The next morning, after they had breakfasted together, the dame told
Elsa that she might see peasant Ulricborg, who seemed somewhat brighter
with the new day. So taking Elsa by the hand she led her into the room
where lay the sick peasant.
He looked very old and feeble; his hair was white as snow, and his thin
cheeks drawn into innumerable wrinkles. Elsa went timidly over and
stood by his bedside, and in a low quivering voice she made known her
request. She told him of Herr Lönnrot’s labors to save the beautiful
song-story of Wainamoinen, and of his great desire to learn the lost
rune that peasant Ulricborg alone knew; how he wished to write it down,
so that it might never again be forgotten and that all the world might
enjoy its beauty.
As she spoke, the old man looked at her with dim blue eyes, and seemed
to listen as one in a dream. When she ceased, he appeared for a moment
lost in thought; then he said slowly and dreamily:
“Yes, thou shalt learn it, Aino; thou shalt hear of the birth of the
harp, of the magic fish and of the mighty hero Wainamoinen, little
Aino.”
“’Tis our own little maid, Aino, that we lost so long ago!” whispered
the old dame to Elsa, as the tears streamed down her face; “thou art so
like her!”
But she hushed her whisper, as suddenly the old peasant began to sing
in a weak, quavering voice that seemed to grow stronger as he sang,
the beautiful lines telling how the ancient Wainamoinen fashioned the
first harp, and how he sang till all the birds forsook their nests, the
fishes their deep sea homes, and all the creatures of the woods, nay,
the very trees themselves, trooped forth from the forests that they
might listen to his enchanting music.
As Elsa heard, the tears came into her own eyes, for she was a poetic
little soul and quickly touched by anything beautiful. When the peasant
Ulricborg had almost finished the rune, he suddenly broke off and lay
back on his pillow exhausted. He lay for so long a while with closed
eyes, that both the dame and Elsa grew frightened; but presently
he again looked at them, his vision becoming brighter; in a little
while all seemed to grow clear to him. He gazed kindly at Elsa, for
something about the little girl seemed strangely to soften the old man.
He noticed her little kantele, and it seemed to interest him, as he
motioned her to lay it beside him. He looked at it a while, and tried
once or twice to touch its strings to music, but his strength failed
him.
Presently, he said feebly:
“Ah, I thought thou wert Aino come back for me!—but never mind—the
rune thou wishest, I can not show thee its music now,”—here he looked
sadly at his stiffened fingers, “but the rune itself, yes, thou shalt
have it, little one!” Then he added slowly, as he gazed dreamily into
Elsa’s shining eyes:
“For thou, too, wilt love it truly!”
Here, as he paused a while, Dame Ulricborg could scarcely hide her
amazement, knowing how often before he had wilfully refused the same
request from others. Indeed, the peasant Ulricborg had all his life
loved poetry with a singular passion; and this particular rune, which
had come down in his family, he seemed to set apart as something almost
sacred; he treasured its verses as misers hoard gold pieces. Whether he
thought it too beautiful to be made overcommon, or for what reason, no
one knew; that was his oddity. So, while he sang it sometimes to those
he considered worthy, he would teach it to none.
And now at last, as he promised it to Elsa, Dame Ulricborg thought
sadly that the promise came too late; for how could he teach it to the
little girl, when every breath was such weary effort? And she knew he
was unable to write readily even if he had the strength.
But having rested a little, he motioned her to bend down, and then he
whispered something to her. She listened with a look of surprise, and
then hastened into the living room, and opening a little cupboard,
searched, till in the farthest corner she found a small box, and this
she brought to the bedside. As she opened it, out fluttered some thin
old sheets of paper, closely written over and yellow with age.
The old man’s eyes kindled as he saw these, and as he marked the utter
surprise of his wife.
“Ah, dear heart,” he said, “thou didst not know—the priest wrote down
the words for me—long ago—I loved it—and wished to keep it—and I
hid it away”—but here the dying peasant, too exhausted for further
speech, paused, and then, turning to Elsa the blue eyes from which the
light was swiftly fading, murmured to her:
“Take it, little one; ’tis the rune—do with it as thou wilt.”
Elsa was so overcome that she fell to crying bitterly, and neither she
nor Dame Ulricborg noticed the sound of sleighbells, for the ground
was covered with a light snow. In a few minutes, however, the cottage
door opened, and in came Elsa’s father, all anxiety for the safety of
his little girl. When Elsa, hearing him, came into the living room, he
caught her in his arms and kissed her passionately, for he had been
greatly alarmed on learning of her journey, and had set off in hot
haste to find her.
Herr Lönnrot, too, who had grown much better, had insisted on coming
with him, and was even then slowly walking toward the cottage door,
for he was still feeble from his illness. He, too, was delighted to
find Elsa safely cared for; but both he and Elsa’s father hushed their
voices when she told them of the peasant Ulricborg. They stepped
softly into the other room, and Herr Lönnrot’s practised eye, for
you remember he was a physician, at once saw that his skill could do
nothing to help the old man. As the Herr gently smoothed the coverlid
the sick peasant gave a faint smile to the faithful old wife who still
bent over him, and then, as Elsa stood reverently holding the yellow
papers between her little palms, he turned to her a long lingering look
that seemed to say:
“Farewell, little one! and farewell to the beloved song, that I have
cherished so jealously all these years. I must leave thee now, but I
leave thee in loving hands—farewell.” And then peacefully, as the wife
laid her withered cheek close to his, his spirit passed away to find
their little Aino.
Afterward, when Elsa gave to Herr Lönnrot the precious papers on which
the rune was written, at first he looked at them in amazement; but his
heart filled with delight when he learned what the papers contained. He
drew Elsa to him, and kissing her forehead declared that she had not
only pleased him beyond measure, but had done honor to old Finland in
helping complete the immortal poem he was striving to save.
When, some weeks later, Herr Lönnrot went away, after providing for
the comfort of Dame Ulricborg, he journeyed back to Helsingfors, the
capital city of Finland; and told the scholars who were studying the
poetry of the land how the little girl had been the means of bringing
to light one of the most beautiful of the runes. Then the scholars
had a little silver medal made which they sent to Elsa, and which she
took great pride in keeping through all her life; and no doubt her
great-grandchildren still keep it to this day.
As for Herr Lönnrot, he lived to put together the runes he had
collected, and when he had finished he called the poem “Kalevala,”
which in our language means “Land of Heroes,” because it tells the
wonderful story of the heroes of that ancient land.
And some day, perhaps, you will read this “Kalevala,” for it is one of
the noblest and most beautiful poems in all the world. And then when
you come to the rune which tells of the birth of the harp, you too will
be glad that the little Finnish girl was the means of saving it from
being lost forever.
COUNT HUGO’S SWORD
HOW THE PEASANT BOY GEOFFREY BY HIS
BRAVERY AND DEVOTION PREVENTED
A DUEL OF GREAT NOBLES AND
BECAME PAGE TO THE
GOOD KING LOUIS
“Tee dee, deedle de de!” shrieked the cockatoo, from his perch high up
in the gabled window of the old inn. “Tee de!” He was a pink and white
cockatoo, with a beautiful tuft on top of his head; one of his legs was
chained to a carved wooden perch that projected from the window-sill,
while with his free claw he carefully balanced a large silver spoon, of
antique pattern, from the contents of which he was very deliberately
dining. For he was no common bird. Monsieur Jean the landlord of
this “Guillaume-le-Conquérant” inn, of the ancient town of Dives,
being something of a bird fancier, had but lately bought him, and for
fear he might fly away, was thus keeping him chained to the window of
monsieur’s own apartment until he should grow used to his new home. As
he now slowly picked from his spoon the last morsel, and swallowed it
with a great ruffling of feathers all the way down his throat, again he
shrilled out in a high-pitched mimicking tone, “Tee deedle!” and this
time a little boy looked up quickly from the courtyard below.
The boy was seated on a bench under a plane-tree, and held in his hands
a sheet of yellow parchment on which was written a musical score, whose
large black notes he was trying to hum over.
“Fie, Cockie!” he cried, as he looked up, “dost thou not know ’tis a
wicked sin to mock me when I am learning the holy mass music?”
But Cockie only screwed his head to one side, shook his empty spoon,
and peered down with an impudent stare, as with a sigh the little boy
once more applied himself to his task. In a few moments, however, he
was again interrupted, this time by a call from beyond the kitchen:
“Geoffrey! Geoffrey! come hither and help catch this fowl for the Count
Hugo’s soup to-morrow!”
After a hot chase, Geoffrey succeeded in catching the fat hen and
handing her over to the white-capped cook of the inn kitchen, and then
he once more sat down and took up his parchment; for though a serving
boy through the week, on Sunday he took his place with the little
choristers of the Dives cathedral, and Father Anselm had allowed him to
take the score home with him, so that he might practise in his leisure
moments.
But as he now tried to go over the black notes, there was a mournful
cadence to every tone, for Geoffrey was very unhappy. Usually he was
gay as a bird, and indeed sang very like one; but to-day he had a
weight on his mind, as he sat there in the courtyard of the quaint old
inn.
It was long, long ago that Geoffrey lived—nearly six hundred years.
The inn in which he served had been built in the Norman town of Dives
nearly three centuries earlier by the great Duke of Normandy, William
the Conqueror, whose name, which in French (for Normandy is a part of
France) is Guillaume-le-Conquérant, the inn still bore in Geoffrey’s
time as it bears to this day. The Duke William had built the house
because he wished to have some safe and pleasant stopping place during
the time he was overseeing the finishing and freighting of the fleet of
boats which lay near by in the river Dives, and in which he meant to
sail to the conquest of England.
And so, with such illustrious beginning, the inn had become very
famous among the nobles of Normandy, and grown larger and larger, till,
in the days when Geoffrey lived, it was a very beautiful place indeed.
The courtyard, which one entered through an arched gateway covered with
guelder roses, was surrounded by ancient wooden buildings; their dark
mossy beams were put together with white plaster, and their innumerable
picturesque peaks and gables and wooden galleries and winding stairways
were richly overhung with masses of the most lovely vines; for roses,
wistarias, clematis, and jasmines clambered everywhere. There were two
gardens also; one for the kitchen, the other full of lilies and clove
pinks and French daisies, and numberless sweet old-fashioned flowers;
for Monsieur Jean, the innkeeper, had much taste and loved both flowers
and birds. Indeed, besides several cockatoos, he always kept dozens of
peacocks that trailed about the courtyard squawking and spreading their
gorgeous tails every time a new guest entered the gateway. There were
fine pigeons, too, and rabbits and chickens, and no end of interesting
things.
Geoffrey thought it a charming place to live, and he did not in the
least mind the work he had to do; for all were kind to him, and
moreover, he was happy in being able to give some of his earnings to
his family at home, who were very poor. His father was a peasant living
on the estate of the young Count Boni, of Château Beauvais, and had it
not been for the kind-heartedness of this count, the poor peasant would
have had hard shift to keep his little children in bread; for in those
days the country had been so wasted by wars that the peasant folk had
almost nothing left on which to live. But the Count Boni had always
been most generous and considerate to the people on his estate, and
especially to Geoffrey’s father, who was honest, and intelligent above
his class. The count it was who had secured for Geoffrey the place at
the inn, and it was he also who had spoken to the monks of Dives of
the boy’s sweet voice, so that the good Fathers had become interested,
and were taking much pains in teaching him music.
And now we come to the reason that Geoffrey was so unhappy as he sat
under the plane-tree, vainly trying to practise his lesson; for he was
thinking all the while of a deadly peril that threatened this good
Count Boni, to whom he was deeply grateful for so many things, and whom
he truly loved next to his own father.