clustered together, as if in consultation; then straight out of the
window they flew like a swarm of gauzy-winged bees, and melted into the
moonlight. Toinette jumped up and ran to watch them but the little men
were gone--not a trace of them was to be seen; so she shut the window,
went back to bed and presently in the midst of her amazed and excited
thoughts fell asleep.
She waked in the morning, with a queer, doubtful feeling. Had she
dreamed, or had it really happened? She put on her best petticoat and
laced her blue bodice; for she thought the mother would perhaps take
them across the wood to the little chapel for the Christmas service. Her
long hair smoothed and tied, her shoes trimly fastened, downstairs she
ran. The mother was stirring porridge over the fire. Toinette went close
to her, but she did not move or turn her head.
"How late the children are," she said at last, lifting the boiling pot
on the hob. Then she went to the stair-foot and called, "Marc,
Jeanneton, Pierre, Marie. Breakfast is ready, my children. Toinette--but
where, then, is Toinette? She is used to be down long before this."
"Toinette isn't upstairs," said Marie from above. "Her door is wide
open, and she isn't there."
"That is strange," said the mother. "I have been here an hour, and she
has not passed this way since." She went to the outer door and called,
"Toinette! Toinette!" passing close to Toinette as she did so, and
looking straight at her with unseeing eyes. Toinette, half frightened,
half pleased, giggled low to herself. She really was invisible, then.
How strange it seemed and what fun it was going to be.
The children sat down to breakfast, little Jeanneton, as the youngest,
saying grace. The mother distributed the porridge and gave each a spoon
but she looked anxious.
"Where can Toinette have gone?" she said to herself. Toinette was
conscious-pricked. She was half inclined to dispel the charm on the
spot. But just then she caught a whisper from Pierre to Marc which so
surprised her as to put the idea out of her head.
"Perhaps a wolf has eaten her up--a great big wolf like the 'Capuchon
Rouge,' you know." This was what Pierre said; and Marc answered
unfeelingly:
"If he has, I shall ask mother to let me have her room for my own."
Poor Toinette, her cheeks burned and her eyes filled with tears at this.
Didn't the boys love her a bit then? Next she grew angry, and longed to
box Marc's ears, only she recollected in time that she was invisible.
What a bad boy he was, she thought.
The smoking porridge reminded her that she was hungry; so brushing away
the tears she slipped a spoon off the table and whenever she found the
chance, dipped it into the bowl for a mouthful. The porridge
disappeared rapidly.
"I want some more," said Jeanneton.
"Bless me, how fast you have eaten," said the mother, turning to the
bowl.
This made Toinette laugh, which shook her spoon, and a drop of the hot
mixture fell right on the tip of Marie's nose as she sat with upturned
face waiting her turn for a second helping. Marie gave a little scream.
"What is it?" said the mother.
"Hot water! Right in my face!" sputtered Marie.
"Water!" cried Marc. "It's porridge."
"You spattered with your spoon. Eat more carefully, my child," said the
mother, and Toinette laughed again as she heard her. After all, there
was some fun in being invisible.
The morning went by. Constantly the mother went to the door, and,
shading her eyes with her hand, looked out, in hopes of seeing a little
figure come down the wood-path, for she thought perhaps the child went
to the spring after water, and fell asleep there. The children played
happily, meanwhile. They were used to doing without Toinette and did not
seem to miss her, except that now and then baby Jeanneton said: "Poor
Toinette gone--not here--all gone."
"Well, what if she has?" said Marc at last looking up from the wooden
cup he was carving for Marie's doll. "We can play all the better."
Marc was a bold, outspoken boy, who always told his whole mind about
things.
"If she were here," he went on, "she'd only scold and interfere.
Toinette almost always scolds. I like to have her go away. It makes it
pleasanter."
"It is rather pleasanter," admitted Marie, "only I'd like her to be
having a nice time somewhere else."
"Bother about Toinette," cried Pierre.
"Let's play 'My godmother has cabbage to sell.'"
I don't think Toinette had ever felt so unhappy in her life, as when she
stood by unseen, and heard the children say these words. She had never
meant to be unkind to them, but she was quick-tempered, dreamy, wrapped
up in herself. She did not like being interrupted by them, it put her
out, and she spoke sharply and was cross. She had taken it for granted
that the others must love her, by a sort of right, and the knowledge
that they did not grieved her very much. Creeping away, she hid herself
in the woods. It was a sparkling day, but the sun did not look so bright
as usual. Cuddled down under a rosebush, Toinette sat sobbing as if her
heart would break at the recollection of the speeches she had overheard.
By and by a little voice within her woke up and began to make itself
audible. All of us know this little voice. We call it conscience.
"Jeanneton missed me," she thought. "And, oh, dear! I pushed her away
only last night and wouldn't tell her a story. And Marie hoped I was
having a pleasant time somewhere. I wish I hadn't slapped Marie last
Friday. And I wish I hadn't thrown Marc's ball into the fire that day I
was angry with him. How unkind he was to say that--but I wasn't always
kind to him. And once I said that I wished a bear would eat Pierre up.
That was because he broke my cup. Oh, dear, oh, dear. What a bad girl
I've been to them all."
"But you could be better and kinder if you tried, couldn't you?" said
the inward voice. "I think you could."
And Toinette clasped her hands tight and said out loud: "I could.
Yes--and I will."
The first thing to be done was to get rid of the fern-seed which she now
regarded as a hateful thing. She untied her shoes and shook it out in
the grass. It dropped and seemed to melt into the air, for it instantly
vanished. A mischievous laugh sounded close behind, and a beetle-green
coat-tail was visible whisking under a tuft of rushes. But Toinette had
had enough of the elves, and, tying her shoes, took the road toward
home, running with all her might.
"Where have you been all day, Toinette?" cried the children, as,
breathless and panting, she flew in at the gate. But Toinette could not
speak. She made slowly for her mother, who stood in the doorway, flung
herself into her arms and burst into a passion of tears.
"_Ma cherie_, what is it, whence hast thou come?" asked the good mother
alarmed. She lifted Toinette into her arms as she spoke, and hastened
indoors. The other children followed, whispering and peeping, but the
mother sent them away, and sitting down by the fire with Toinette in her
lap, she rocked and hushed and comforted, as though Toinette had been
again a little baby. Gradually the sobs ceased. For a while Toinette lay
quiet, with her head on her mother's breast. Then she wiped her wet
eyes, put her arms around her mother's neck, and told her all from the
very beginning, keeping not a single thing back. The dame listened with
alarm.
"Saints protect us," she muttered. Then feeling Toinette's hands and
head, "Thou hast a fever," she said. "I will make thee a _tisane_, my
darling, and thou must at once go to bed." Toinette vainly protested; to
bed she went and perhaps it was the wisest thing, for the warm drink
threw her into a long sound sleep and when she woke she was herself
again, bright and well, hungry for dinner, and ready to do her usual
tasks.
Herself--but not quite the same Toinette that she had been before.
Nobody changes from bad to better in a minute. It takes time for that,
time and effort, and a long struggle with evil habits and tempers. But
there is sometimes a certain minute or day in which people begin to
change, and thus it was with Toinette. The fairy lesson was not lost
upon her. She began to fight with herself, to watch her faults and try
to conquer them. It was hard work; often she felt discouraged, but she
kept on. Week after week and month after month she grew less selfish,
kinder, more obliging than she used to be. When she failed and her old
fractious temper got the better of her, she was sorry and begged every
one's pardon so humbly that they could not but forgive. The mother began
to think that the elves really had bewitched her child. As for the
children they learned to love Toinette as never before, and came to her
with all their pains and pleasures, as children should to a kind older
sister. Each fresh proof of this, every kiss from Jeanneton, every
confidence from Marc, was a comfort to Toinette, for she never forgot
Christmas Day, and felt that no trouble was too much to wipe out that
unhappy recollection. "I think they like me better than they did then,"
she would say; but then the thought came, "Perhaps if I were invisible
again, if they did not know I was there, I might hear something to make
me feel as badly as I did that morning." These sad thoughts were part of
the bitter fruit of the fairy fern-seed.
So with doubts and fears the year went by, and again it was Christmas
Eve. Toinette had been asleep some hours when she was roused by a sharp
tapping at the window pane. Startled, and only half awake, she sat up in
bed and saw by the moonlight a tiny figure outside which she recognized.
It was Thistle drumming with his knuckles on the glass.
"Let me in," cried the dry little voice. So Toinette opened the
casement, and Thistle flew in and perched as before on the coverlet.
"Merry Christmas, my girl," he said, "and a Happy New Year when it
comes. I've brought you a present;" and, dipping into a pouch tied round
his waist, he pulled out a handful of something brown. Toinette knew
what it was in a moment.
"Oh, no," she cried shrinking back. "Don't give me any fern-seeds. They
frighten me. I don't like them."
"Don't be silly," said Thistle, his voice sounding kind this time, and
earnest. "It wasn't pleasant being invisible last year, but perhaps this
year it will be. Take my advice, and try it. You'll not be sorry."
"Sha'n't I?" said Toinette, brightening. "Very well, then, I will." She
leaned out of bed, and watched Thistle strew the fine dustlike grains in
each shoe.
"I'll drop in to-morrow night, and just see how you like it," he said.
Then, with a nod, he was gone.
The old fear came back when she woke in the morning, and she tied on her
shoes with a tremble at her heart. Downstairs she stole. The first thing
she saw was a wooden ship standing on her plate. Marc had made the ship,
but Toinette had no idea it was for her.
The little ones sat round the table with their eyes on the door,
watching till Toinette should come in and be surprised.
"I wish she'd hurry," said Pierre, drumming on his bowl with a spoon.
"We all want Toinette, don't we?" said the mother, smiling as she poured
the hot porridge.
"It will be fun to see her stare," declared Marc. "Toinette is jolly
when she stares. Her eyes look big and her cheeks grow pink. Andre
Brugen thinks his sister Aline is prettiest, but I don't. Our Toinette
is ever so pretty."
"She is ever so nice, too," said Pierre. "She's as good to play with
as--as--a boy," finished triumphantly.
"Oh, I wish my Toinette would come," said Jeanneton.
Toinette waited no longer, but sped upstairs with glad tears in her
eyes. Two minutes, and down she came again visible this time. Her heart
was light as a feather.
"Merry Christmas!" clamoured the children. The ship was presented,
Toinette was duly surprised, and so the happy day began.
That night Toinette left the window open, and lay down in her clothes;
for she felt, as Thistle had been so kind, she ought to receive him
politely. He came at midnight, and with him all the other little men in
green.
"Well, how was it?" asked Thistle.
"Oh, I liked it this time," declared Toinette, with shining eyes, "and I
thank you so much."
"I'm glad you did," said the elf. "And I'm glad you are thankful, for we
want you to do something for us."
"What can it be?" inquired Toinette, wondering.
"You must know," went on Thistle, "that there is no dainty in the world
which we elves enjoy like a bowl of fern-seed broth. But it has to be
cooked over a real fire, and we dare not go near fire, you know, lest
our wings scorch. So we seldom get any fern-seed broth. Now, Toinette,
will you make us some?"
"Indeed, I will!" cried Toinette, "only you must tell me how."
"It is very simple," said Peascod; "only seed and honey dew, stirred
from left to right with a sprig of fennel. Here's the seed and the
fennel, and here's the dew. Be sure and stir from the left; if you
don't, it curdles, and the flavour will be spoiled."
Down into the kitchen they went, and Toinette, moving very softly,
quickened the fire, set on the smallest bowl she could find, and spread
the doll's table with the wooden saucers which Marc had made for
Jeanneton to play with. Then she mixed and stirred as the elves bade,
and when the soup was done, served it to them smoking hot. How they
feasted! No bumblebee, dipping into a flower-cup, ever sipped and
twinkled more rapturously than they.
When the last drop was eaten, they made ready to go. Each in turn kissed
Toinette's hand, and said a word of farewell. Thistle brushed his
feathered cap over the doorpost as he passed.
"Be lucky, house," he said, "for you have received and entertained the
luck-bringers. And be lucky, Toinette. Good temper is good luck, and
sweet words and kind looks and peace in the heart are the fairest of
fortunes. See that you never lose them again, my girl." With this, he,
too, kissed Toinette's hand, waved his feathered cap, and--whir! they
all were gone, while Toinette, covering the fire with ashes and putting
aside the little cups, stole up to her bed a happy child.
FOOTNOTE:
[E] Published by arrangement with Little, Brown & Co.
IX
THE VOYAGE OF THE WEE RED CAP[F]
RUTH SAWYER DURAND
It was the night of St. Stephen, and Teig sat alone by his fire with
naught in his cupboard but a pinch of tea and a bare mixing of meal, and
a heart inside of him as soft and warm as the ice on the water-bucket
outside the door. The tuft was near burnt on the hearth--a handful of
golden cinders left, just; and Teig took to counting them greedily on
his fingers.
"There's one, two, three, an' four an' five," he laughed. "Faith, there
be more bits o' real gold hid undther the loose clay in the corner."
It was the truth; and it was the scraping and scrooching for the last
piece that had left Teig's cupboard bare of a Christmas dinner.
"Gold is betther nor eatin' an' dthrinkin'. An' if ye have naught to
give, there'll be naught asked of ye;" and he laughed again.
He was thinking of the neighbours, and the doles of food and piggins of
milk that would pass over their thresholds that night to the vagabonds
and paupers who were sure to come begging. And on the heels of that
thought followed another: who would be giving old Barney his dinner?
Barney lived a stone's throw from Teig, alone, in a wee tumbled-in
cabin; and for a score of years past Teig had stood on the doorstep
every Christmas Eve, and, making a hollow of his two hands, had called
across the road:
"Hey, there, Barney, will ye come over for a sup?" And Barney had
reached for his crutches--there being but one leg to him--and had come.
"Faith," said Teig, trying another laugh, "Barney can fast for the once;
'twill be all the same in a month's time." And he fell to thinking of
the gold again.
A knock came at the door. Teig pulled himself down in his chair where
the shadow would cover him, and held his tongue.
"Teig, Teig!" It was the widow O'Donnelly's voice. "If ye are there,
open your door. I have not got the pay for the spriggin' this month, an'
the childher are needin' food."
But Teig put the leash on his tongue, and never stirred till he heard
the tramp of her feet going on to the next cabin. Then he saw to it that
the door was tight-barred. Another knock came, and it was a stranger's
voice this time:
"The other cabins are filled; not one but has its hearth crowded; will
ye take us in--the two of us? The wind bites mortal sharp, not a morsel
o' food have we tasted this day. Masther, will ye take us in?"
But Teig sat on, a-holding his tongue; and the tramp of the strangers'
feet passed down the road. Others took their place--small feet, running.
It was the miller's wee Cassie, and she called out as she ran by.
"Old Barney's watchin' for ye. Ye'll not be forgettin' him, will ye,
Teig?"
And then the child broke into a song, sweet and clear, as she passed
down the road:
"Listen all ye, 'tis the Feast o' St. Stephen,
Mind that ye keep it, this holy even.
Open your door an' greet ye the stranger--
For ye mind that the wee Lord had naught but a manger.
Mhuire as truagh!
"Feed ye the hungry an' rest ye the weary,
This ye must do for the sake of Our Mary.
'Tis well that ye mind--ye who sit by the fire--
That the Lord he was born in a dark and cold byre.
Mhuire as truagh!"
Teig put his fingers deep in his ears. "A million murdthering curses on
them that won't let me be! Can't a man try to keep what is his without
bein' pesthered by them that has only idled an' wasted their days?"
And then the strange thing happened: hundreds and hundreds of wee lights
began dancing outside the window, making the room bright; the hands of
the clock began chasing each other round the dial, and the bolt of the
door drew itself out. Slowly, without a creak or a cringe, the door
opened, and in there trooped a crowd of the Good People. Their wee green
cloaks were folded close about them, and each carried a rush candle.
Teig was filled with a great wonderment, entirely, when he saw the
fairies, but when they saw him they laughed.
"We are takin' the loan o' your cabin this night, Teig," said they. "Ye
are the only man hereabout with an empty hearth, an' we're needin' one."
Without saying more, they bustled about the room making ready. They
lengthened out the table and spread and set it; more of the Good People
trooped in, bringing stools and food and drink. The pipers came last,
and they sat themselves around the chimney-piece a-blowing their
chanters and trying the drones. The feasting began and the pipers played
and never had Teig seen such a sight in his life. Suddenly a wee man
sang out:
"Clip, clap, clip, clap, I wish I had my wee red cap!" And out of the
air there tumbled the neatest cap Teig ever laid his two eyes on. The
wee man clapped it on his head, crying:
"I wish I was in Spain!" and--whist--up the chimney he went, and away
out of sight.
It happened just as I am telling it. Another wee man called for his cap,
and away he went after the first. And then another and another until the
room was empty and Teig sat alone again.
"By my soul," said Teig, "I'd like to thravel that way myself! It's a
grand savin' of tickets an' baggage; an' ye get to a place before ye've
had time to change your mind. Faith there is no harm done if I thry it."
So he sang the fairies' rhyme and out of the air dropped a wee cap for
him. For a moment the wonder had him, but the next he was clapping the
cap on his head and crying:
"Spain!"
Then--whist--up the chimney he went after the fairies, and before he had
time to let out his breath he was standing in the middle of Spain, and
strangeness all about him.
He was in a great city. The doorways of the houses were hung with
flowers and the air was warm and sweet with the smell of them. Torches
burned along the streets, sweetmeat-sellers went about crying their
wares, and on the steps of the cathedral crouched a crowd of beggars.
"What's the meanin' o' that?" asked Teig of one of the fairies.
"They are waiting for those that are hearing mass. When they come out,
they give half of what they have to those that have nothing, so on this
night of all the year there shall be no hunger and no cold."
And then far down the street came the sound of a child's voice, singing:
"Listen all ye, 'tis the Feast o' St. Stephen,
Mind that ye keep it, this holy even'."
"Curse it!" said Teig; "can a song fly afther ye?" And then he heard the
fairies cry "Holland!" and cried "Holland!" too.
In one leap he was over France, and another over Belgium; and with the
third he was standing by long ditches of water frozen fast, and over
them glided hundreds upon hundreds of lads and maids. Outside each door
stood a wee wooden shoe empty. Teig saw scores of them as he looked down
the ditch of a street.
"What is the meanin' o' those shoes?" he asked the fairies.
"Ye poor lad!" answered the wee man next to him; "are ye not knowing
anything? This is the Gift Night of the year, when every man gives to
his neighbour."
A child came to the window of one of the houses, and in her hand was a
lighted candle. She was singing as she put the light down close to the
glass, and Teig caught the words:
"Open your door an' greet ye the stranger--
For ye mind that the wee Lord had naught but a manger.
Mhuire as truagh!"
"'Tis the de'il's work!" cried Teig, and he set the red cap more firmly
on his head.
"I'm for another country."
I cannot be telling you a half of the adventures Teig had that night,
nor half the sights that he saw. But he passed by fields that held
sheaves of grain for the birds and doorsteps that held bowls of porridge
for the wee creatures. He saw lighted trees, sparkling and heavy with
gifts; and he stood outside the churches and watched the crowds pass in,
bearing gifts to the Holy Mother and Child.
At last the fairies straightened their caps and cried, "Now for the
great hall in the King of England's palace!"
Whist--and away they went, and Teig after them; and the first thing he
knew he was in London, not an arm's length from the King's throne. It
was a grander sight than he had seen in any other country. The hall was
filled entirely with lords and ladies; and the great doors were open for
the poor and the homeless to come in and warm themselves by the King's
fire and feast from the King's table. And many a hungry soul did the
King serve with his own hands.
Those that had anything to give gave it in return. It might be a bit of
music played on a harp or a pipe, or it might be a dance or a song; but
more often it was a wish, just, for good luck and safekeeping.
Teig was so taken up with the watching that he never heard the fairies
when they wished themselves off; moreover, he never saw the wee girl
that was fed, and went laughing away. But he heard a bit of her song as
she passed through the door:
"Feed ye the hungry an' rest ye the weary,
This ye must do for the sake of Our Mary."
Then the anger had Teig. "I'll stop your pestherin' tongue, once an' for
all time!" and, catching the cap from his head, he threw it after her.
No sooner was the cap gone than every soul in the hall saw him. The next
moment they were about him, catching at his coat and crying:
"Where is he from, what does he here? Bring him before the King!" And
Teig was dragged along by a hundred hands to the throne where the King
sat.
"He was stealing food," cried one.
"He was robbing the King's jewels," cried another.
"He looks evil," cried a third. "Kill him!"
And in a moment all the voices took it up and the hall rang with: "Aye,
kill him, kill him!"
Teig's legs took to trembling, and fear put the leash on his tongue; but
after a long silence he managed to whisper:
"I have done evil to no one--no one!"
"Maybe," said the King; "but have ye done good? Come, tell us, have ye
given aught to any one this night? If ye have, we will pardon ye."
Not a word could Teig say--fear tightened the leash--for he was knowing
full well there was no good to him that night.
"Then ye must die," said the King. "Will ye try hanging or beheading?"
"Hanging, please, your Majesty," said Teig.
The guards came rushing up and carried him off. But as he was crossing
the threshold of the hall a thought sprang at him and held him.
"Your Majesty," he called after him, "will ye grant me a last request?"
"I will," said the King.
"Thank ye. There's a wee red cap that I'm mortal fond of, and I lost it
a while ago; if I could be hung with it on, I would hang a deal more
comfortable."
The cap was found and brought to Teig.
"Clip, clap, clip, clap, for my wee red cap, I wish I was home," he
sang.