THE LITTLE HOUSE IN THE FAIRY WOOD
by
ETHEL COOK ELIOT
TO TORKA AND NORTHWIND
CONTENTS
I. MAGIC IN A MIST
II. THE BRIGHT HOUSE
III. FIRELIGHT
IV. THE GOSSIP
V. WORLD STORIES
VI. AT THE HEART OF A TREE
VII. TREE MOTHER AND THE DROWSY BOAT
VIII. A WITCH AT THE WINDOW
IX. THE WIND HUNT
X. ON THE GRAY WALL
XI. THE BEAUTIFUL WICKED WITCH
XII. IVRA'S BIRTHDAY
XIII. NORA'S GRANDCHILDREN
XIV. SPRING COMES
XV. SPRING WANDERING
XVI. OVER THE TREE TOPS
XVII. THE JUNE MOON
XVIII. THE DEEPEST PLACE IN THE WOOD
XIX. MORE MAGIC IN A MIST
CHAPTER I
MAGIC IN A MIST
That morning began no differently from any morning, though it was to be
the beginning of all things new for Eric. He was awakened early by Mrs.
Freg's rough hand shaking him by the arm, and her rough voice in his
ears: "Get up, lazy-bones! _All_ you boys pile out, this very minute!
It's six o'clock already!" Then she reached over Eric and shook the
other two boys in the bed with him, repeating and repeating "Wake up,
wake up! It's six o'clock already!" When she was sure the three boys in
the bed were awake and miserable, she crossed the room with a hurried,
heavy tread and clumped, clumped down the stairs into the kitchen.
Though it happened just that way every morning, and it had happened so
this morning, this day was to be very different from any other in Eric's
life. But Eric could not know that; so he crawled farther down under the
few bedclothes he had managed to keep to himself, and shut his eyes
again just for a minute.
The night had been a cold one, and the other two boys in the bed,
because they were older and stronger, had managed to keep most of the
bedding wrapped tightly around them, while little Eric shivered on the
very edge. So he had not slept at all in the way little boys of nine
usually sleep,--that is, when they have a bed to themselves, and their
mother has left a kiss with them. When he had slept, he had dreamed he
was wading in icy puddles out in the street.
But it was only a minute that he huddled there, trying to come really
awake, and then he sprang out, and without thought of a bath, was into
his clothes in a minute. The two older boys followed him more slowly,
yawning, growling, and quarreling.
Breakfast was served in the kitchen by Mrs. Freg. The room was bare and
ugly like the rest of the house, and the food was far from satisfying.
As the older boys got most of the bedding for themselves, so they got
most of the breakfast, while Mr. and Mrs. Freg laughed at them, and
praised them for fine, hearty boys who knew what they wanted and would
get it.
"You will succeed in the world, both of you," said Mrs. Freg with
mother-pride gleaming in her eyes, when they had managed to seize and
divide between them little Eric's steaming cup of coffee,--the only hot
thing he had hoped for that morning.
"Will I be a success, too?" asked Eric in a faint but hopeful voice.
"You!" said the harsh woman. "You, young man, had better be thankful to
work on at the canning instead of starving in the streets. That's the
fate of most orphans. Success indeed! Now hurry along, all of you. It's
quarter to seven."
But right here is where the day began to differ from other days. Eric
did not hurry along. He threw down his spoon and cried, "I'd just as
soon starve in the streets, and wade in its icy puddles, too, as live
here with you and your nasty boys and work in that old canning factory!
I just wonder how you'd feel if I went out this morning and never, never
came back! I'd like to do that!"
Mrs. Freg laughed, and her laugh was not a nice mother-laugh at all, for
she was not Eric's mother, and had never pretended that she was.
"Why, little spitfire, it wouldn't matter a bit except to make one less
mouth to feed. But you won't be so silly as that. You don't want to
starve."
"All right," said little Eric, snatching his cap from its peg. "You said
it wouldn't matter to you. You won't see me again, any of you. I hate
you all, and everything in the world. I hate you. You've made me hate
you hard!"
Then he suddenly ran out into the street.
In a minute he was in a flood of people, men, women and children moving
towards the canning factory, a big brick building on the outskirts of
the city. Eric had worked in that factory from the day he was seven.
There is no need to tell you what he did there, for this is not the
story of the canning factory Eric,--the queer, hating Eric who had waked
up that morning.
But how he did hate! His eyes were full of hating tears, and they were
running down his face, making horrid white streaks on his dirty cheeks.
He was hating so hard that he did not even care if people saw his tears.
He lifted his face straight up and dropped his arms straight down at his
side and walked right along, no matter how fast the tears came.
Now he had often hated before, but never quite like this. Before, it had
been a frightened hate, a gnawing, hurting thing deep down in his heart.
But to-day it was a flaring hate, a burning thing right up in his head.
It was big, too, because it included everything that he knew, Mrs. Freg,
her boys, the street, the people jostling him, and hottest and wildest
of all the canning factory. How terrible to go in there in the morning,
when the sun was only just up, and not to come out again until it was
quite down! Eric knew little about play, but he did know that if he
could only be let stay out in the sunshine he would find things to do
there. If they'd only let him try it once!
So he walked along in the direction the others were going, the hating
tears in his eyes and on his face. But no one laughed at him, and no one
asked him what was the matter, even the other children. For he was not
crying in the usual way with little boys. He was walking along with his
head up. So people did not bother him.
He had reached the outskirts of the town, and was almost in the shadow
of the big, cruel factory, when the Magic began to work. For there was
magic in this day that had started so badly. It was only waiting for
Eric to see it before it would take hold of him and carry him away into
happiness. It had waited for him at the door of the dull, bare little
house that had never been home to him, but his tears would not let him
see it. So it had followed along beside him all the way to the factory,
waiting for him to feel, even if he could not see. And he did
feel,--just in time to let the Magic work.
He felt that the day that had begun so freezingly was warm, strangely
warm. He wiped the tears from his eyes away to the side of his face with
his sleeve, and looked about. The sun was very bright, but in a mild,
pleasant way. And a tree on the other side of the street was showering
softly, softly, softly, yellow autumn leaves, until they covered the
cobblestones all around. Eric did not think about being late. The Magic
was pulling him now. He went across and stood under the tree, and felt
the leaves showering on his head and shoulders, and caught a few in his
hands.
All the people passed, and soon the last one was hidden behind the heavy
factory door. Eric gave the door a glance or two, but did not go. Over
the roof of the factory he saw the tops of tall trees waving. He had
never looked so high above the factory before. But he knew there was a
wood on the other side, a wood he had always been too tired to think of
exploring, even on holidays. Now he saw the tops of the tall trees
beckoning him in a golden mist. "The mist is the yellow leaves they're
dropping," thought Eric. With every beckon the golden mist of leaves
grew brighter and brighter, until he could not see the beckoning any
more, but only the mist. Still he knew the beckoning was going on behind
the mist.
"If I'm to live in the streets at night," he thought to himself,
"there's no need to live in the factory by day. I'll just go and see
what those trees want of me."
Very slowly, with little firm steps, he went by the factory door, and
then around under its windows to the wood at the back.
It was Indian Summer. That was why the golden leaves were showering in a
mist, and why the sun was so warm.
Eric dropped his ragged coat and cap on the edge of the wood,--it was so
warm,--and went in.
A little girl had been watching him from her place at one of the factory
windows where she was sorting cans. She had seen him before, working at
the factory, day after day, and they had played together sometimes in
the noon half hour. Now she wondered what he was doing out there. Had
they sent him, perhaps, to do a different kind of work that could only
be done in the woods? But as he walked away in under the trees farther
and farther, the golden mist that was over the wood drew in about him;
and although she leaned far forward over the cans at a great risk of
knocking over dozens and setting them rolling,--he was lost in it. It
had dropped down behind him like a curtain.