longed to lie down under the trees and sleep; moreover the snake in her
hand twisted and twisted, till she could scarce hold it. Sometimes she
cried from very weariness, but still the raven flew in front of her.
She had bought dry bread as she came along, and when the raven stopped
and hopped upon the ground, she munched it to stave off her hunger,
but directly the raven began to fly she followed it, and she never let
the snake from her grasp. The sun had set, and dark was all over the
land ere she came to the village where the fool lived, but no fool was
there to be seen. Hulda sought everywhere, but she could not find him.
Then she saw that the raven had stopped and settled on the roof of the
cottage where the fool lived, and, standing on one leg, had gone to
sleep with its head under its wing, so Hulda lay down by the side of
the door, and laying her head on a stone rested too. But first she took
off her girdle and tied it firmly round the snake’s throat, and then
tied it round her waist again lest she should fall asleep and the snake
glide away.
Just when the stars were beginning to look pale, and as there were
signs of the dawn in the sky, the door of the cottage opened, and out
there came the fool, dressed up as Hulda had seen him before, with
feathers and weeds and bits of bright rag. Hulda started up, and he
laughed when he saw her. “Look,” he said, “the sun is rising; I am come
out to see it.”
“I have come back,” cried Hulda, “and I have seen them all—the old
man and the musician girls, and the one who stole Othmar’s voice will
never use it again, for this snake has throttled her; but what am I to
do now? How can I give him back his voice? What shall I do to make him
speak?” And as she spoke she took the snake from her bosom and showed
it to the fool. He looked at it very gravely as he always did when
anything was shown to him, and looked very wise and nodded. “It is a
snake,” he said; “perhaps Othmar will like the snake.”
Hulda begged him to tell her if he knew what she should do, but he
would say no more, but began to dance and sing as she had seen him do
before. Then at last Hulda burst out crying, “He is nothing but a poor
idiot,” she said, “and I have been on a fool’s errand when I did as he
told me, though I did see the wicked little man, and this snake did
punish the singing girl, so I will take it back to Othmar that he may
see I have tried. But now I believe he will be dumb for ever.”
And she took the snake and looked at it as she held it. It was very
still, and seemed half torpid, though the weather was warm. She saw it
was not a common snake, for it was bright brown, and green with odd
markings, and it glittered oddly when the sun’s rays touched it.
“I will go back now,” said Hulda; “I will go back to Othmar, and tell
him I have failed, and ask him to forgive my vanity in thinking
I could help him. I will go back at once and tell him all.” And
overhead the raven croaked and told her to go quickly, but she did not
understand what he said.
So again she began to trudge on, holding the snake in her hands and
toiling over fields and moors in the way that she knew led to her own
little village, though by now her feet were so swollen and her legs so
stiff that she almost cried for pain.
Presently she came to the village where the cake-maker lived, and as
she passed his shop, she saw that he stood at the door and nodded to
her as he saw her coming.
“Good-day,” he cried; “you are the young wench I saw go past awhile
back.”
“Yes, I am going home now,” said Hulda.
“And have you found your fiddles and horns that turned to men and
women?” he asked. “It was a fool’s errand, I fear, you were going on;
and what have you got in your hand now?”
“It is a snake,” answered Hulda, “and——”
“A snake!” screamed the cake-maker. “Lord love the girl, is she mad to
go wandering over the country carrying a snake with her? Why, it might
kill you, wench! Drop it at once!”
“No, indeed, I will not drop it,” said Hulda, “for it seems to me that
it is the only thing which may do Othmar good, for at any rate it has
killed the girl who stole his voice, and——”
At this the man started and called out, “Good Lord, she is clean off
her head. Stolen Othmar’s voice! What can the wench mean? Why, girl,
that snake might bite you, and you would be dead at once. Why on earth
should you carry it because it has killed a girl?”
“I am carrying it because the fool told me to do what the raven does,”
answered Hulda, “and he has still a worm in his mouth. Look.”
At this the man burst out laughing. “Why, what has that to do with
you?” he cried; “a raven will often carry a worm for a bit. Drop this
snake at once, you silly lass, or, better still, hold it firm while I
crush its head with my poker.” And he seized the poker to kill it with.
Then Hulda was frightened lest he might steal the snake from her, or
kill it by force, and she ran on; but she ran in such haste that she
stumbled against the baker who was just coming out from his shop with
his basket of loaves on his arm.
“Can’t you look where you are going?” he cried in anger, as he picked
up the bread which had rolled into the road; and then, seeing it was
Hulda, he said:—“Why, who are you running away from, my girl? Are you
on the look-out for more fools that you can’t see when an honest man
comes along? And whatever have you got there?”
“It is only a snake I have found,” said Hulda, when she had asked the
man’s pardon, and she tried to hide the snake in her skirt, but the
baker seized her arm and made her show it to him.
“What on earth are you carrying a live snake with you for?” he asked.
“Don’t you know they are venomous beasts, and the bite of one is
certain death?” And, like the cake-maker, he tried to wrench the snake
from her. At this Hulda was terribly frightened.
“If they take the snake from me,” she thought, “then my last chance is
gone,” and she tried to free herself from the baker, but he seized her
by the skirt and held her fast, and shouted out to others to come and
help him.
“Help, help!” he cried. “Here is a poor mad girl, and she has got hold
of a poisonous adder, and she will let it loose in the village and it
will bite some of our children and kill them.” And when they heard his
cry the villagers all came running out of their cottages.
“Let me go, let me go,” shrieked Hulda, “it will do no harm. I will
hold it tight, and I would not lose it for the wide world.”
“I tell you she is mad,” roared the baker, and the cake-maker came up
and said the same thing. “She wandered by here some time back, and all
she wanted to know was where she could find another as mad as herself,
but she will have far to go before she meets one, I reckon. We must
secure her and take the snake from her, but beware how you catch it,
for fear it should bite.”
And the people all gathered round her and made a great hubbub, though
they were afraid to touch the snake which Hulda still held firmly in
her hand. And they made such a din that the old school-master came out
of the school-house with his pupils after him.
The people told him there was a poor mad girl who had got a snake, and
would not let them take it from her, and he remembered Hulda as the
others had done, and shook his head and said sadly, “I fear it is too
true. The poor child is really mad, but we cannot wrench the snake from
her lest it may turn and bite us. But it is certain that it would not
be safe to let her go; so, as the children are all going home now, let
us lock her into the school-house here, till we can get something to
kill the creature with, and then when the doctor comes, he can see if
the poor girl is very bad, and what had better be done with her.”
Hulda turned quite white with fear, and cried out that she was not mad,
and that the snake should harm no one, but they would not heed her,
and pushed her into the school-house, and bolted the doors on her, and
there Hulda sat on the floor and cried as if her heart would break.
“Alas!” cried she, “now all hope is gone, and Othmar will be dumb for
ever. For what good have I carried this snake with me all this way, if
now it is to be taken from me and killed?” and her tears fell on the
viper as she looked at it in her hand. It was very bright green and
yellow, and it kept wrinkling and twisting its skin as she grasped
it, and making a loud hissing noise. As her tears were still falling
she heard a croak over her head, and saw the raven perched on a window
above her, and again her hopes revived.
“Maybe he has come to help me,” she thought, “for I should never have
found the little dwarf if it had not been for the raven.” Then as she
looked up at the raven sitting in the window, she saw that it was
pecking at a piece of rope that hung through the window, and Hulda
thought—“Surely if I could climb up to the window, I could scramble
through it, and climb down the rope on to the ground. Only if they were
to see me, they would catch me again, so I must wait till nightfall
when there is no one there.”
So she sat down again and waited till the sun had set, and she trembled
at every noise lest it might be some one coming to seek her, but they
left her alone, and no one came. When it was quite dark, and all the
village was quiet she went to the window, and tried to climb up to it,
but she found that she could not manage to get up on to the window-sill
while she held the snake in her hand. Then first she thought she would
wind it around her waist, but she remembered how it had tightened
around the singing girl and killed her, and for some time she could
not think what to do with it. At last she twisted it into a knot, and
placed it in her bosom, though she trembled lest it should bite her.
And when she placed it in her bosom, she saw the curl of Othmar’s hair
that lay there, and she took it and tied up the snake’s jaws with it so
that it might not open its mouth. “For Othmar’s hair will not break or
give way,” she said; “it is like his heart, it will be true and strong
till the end.”
Then she climbed up on to the window-ledge, and scrambled through the
window, and took the piece of rope and let herself down on to the
ground outside. And when she lit upon the ground, she heard the raven
croaking above her, and her heart leapt for joy, and she began to run
as fast as she could to get away from the village lest they might catch
her again.
When she came again into the open country, she looked for the raven,
and saw that it was flying in front of her as before, towards the
distant mountains where she knew lay her home. She toiled on, for many
days, but by now the summer had nearly passed away, and when she got
into the high mountain land, she found that the cold winter had given
signs of coming, and the trees were beginning to be bare, and there was
a light white frost on the ground. It was far into the night when she
arrived in the village, and the villagers were all asleep and their
cottages shut. Outside the cottage where Othmar lived grew a big old
ivy tree, and on this the raven perched, and underneath it Hulda lay
down to wait the dawn and Othmar’s waking. She lay quiet for a bit,
but when she saw a faint glimmering of light where the sun was going
to rise, she felt she could be still no longer, and she sprang up and
called, “Othmar, come down, I am here,” for she dreaded having to tell
him before the other villagers that she had failed.
In a few moments the door of the cottage opened and Othmar came out,
and ran to greet her, but she kept afar.
“Othmar,” she cried, “I have done you no good, save that I have
punished the wicked girl who took your voice. This snake killed her, so
she will never sing as you did again. See.” And she held out the snake
to him; it was curled round and still tied up with his hair, and as the
sun began to shine it glittered brightly.
“But I have done you no good, indeed rather harm,” Hulda went on, “for
I have made you hope where there was no hope, and you have waited and
expected that I should bring you back what you had lost, and I have not
done it, and now I shall never hear you say my name ‘Hulda’ again,” and
she wept so bitterly that the tears fell from her face, and dropped
upon the snake which still she grasped. Othmar held out his hand, and
tried to take her hand that he might kiss it, and as he did so, he
touched the snake’s long tail, and it began to writhe and twist, and
glisten more and more as the sun shone on it. And as he raised her hand
to his mouth, Othmar tried to say her name “Hulda” with his poor dumb
lips that could make no sound, and he breathed it on the snake, and it
seemed as if the snake vibrated with the name, and suddenly it swelled
and swelled, and shone still more brightly, and its mouth grew wide and
burst Othmar’s hair which had bound it, and widened out till it was not
a snake any more, but a curled golden trumpet, curled up as the snake
had been, and like that which had been changed into the singing girl
who stole Othmar’s voice. “Take it, Othmar, and blow,” cried Hulda,
and he put it to his lips and cried “Hulda!” and Hulda heard her name
echoing back in a burst of music from all around. At its sound the
birds awoke in all the trees, and began their morning chorus, and the
village folk ran to their windows to see what the trumpet’s peal had
been, and saw Othmar standing with Hulda in his arms, and at their feet
the bright trumpet which he had dropped. It lay on the ground, but as
Othmar began to speak and to say, “Hulda, Hulda, you have brought it
back, you have given me my voice again,” the trumpet broke into many
pieces, and with every word crumbled, till there was nothing left but
a little heap of shining golden sand, and from under it there glided
out a dark green snake with yellow markings, and it slid away into the
bushes and disappeared.
Then all the villagers rejoiced, and Hulda wept with happiness. And
Othmar married Hulda, and his voice never left him again; but when
long years after folk would tell him his voice was sweet and far more
beautiful than the birds, he would say, “But it is not really my voice,
it is my wife’s, Hulda’s, for I should have been dumb for ever if she
had not sought it and brought it back to me.”
[Illustration: THE RAIN MAIDEN]
ONCE upon a time there lived a shepherd and his wife, who lived in
a very lonely little cottage far from town or village, near some
mountains. It was a wild neighbourhood, and the wind blew across the
mountains fiercely, and the rain often fell so heavily that it seemed
as if the cottage would be washed away. One evening when the shepherd
was out, there came on a great storm of rain which beat against the
doors and the windows violently. As the shepherd’s wife sat listening
to it by the fire, it seemed to her as if it sounded louder than she
had ever heard it before, and the raindrops sounded like the knock of
a hand that was knocking to gain admittance. It went on for a little
time, till the shepherd’s wife could bear to listen to it no longer,
and she rose and went to the door to open it, though she knew that
she would let the wind and rain into the room. As she opened the door
a gust of rain was blown in her face, and then she saw that in the
doorway stood a woman who had been knocking. She was a tall woman
wrapped in a grey cloak with long hair falling down her back. “Thank
you,” she said. And though her voice was very low, the shepherd’s wife
could hear it plainly through all the storm. “Thank you for opening the
door to me. Many would have let me stand outside. Now may I come into
your cottage and rest?”
“How wet you must be!” cried the shepherd’s wife; “come in and rest,
and let me give you food. Have you come from far?”
“No, I come from quite near,” said the woman, and she came into the
cottage as she spoke, and sat down in a chair near the door. “And I
want no food, only a glass of water. I must go on directly, but I have
not far to go, and I shall be no wetter than I am now.”
The shepherd’s wife stared in surprise, for she saw that apparently
the woman’s clothes were not wet at all. And what was stranger still,
though she had thought she was only clad in a dull grey cloak, now she
saw that she was covered with jewellery,—clear stones, like diamonds
with many flashing colours; and she also saw that all her clothes were
of the finest. She gave her a glass of water, and begged that as well
she might give her other food, but the woman shook her head, and said
no, water was all she needed. When she had drunk the water she gave
back the glass to the shepherd’s wife, and said, “And so this is your
home. Have you all that you want in life? Are you happy?”
“Ay, we are happy enough,” said the shepherd’s wife, “save indeed for
one thing. Ten years ago my little baby girl died, and I have no other
children. I long for one sorely, that I might take care of it and make
it happy, while it is little, and then in turn, when I am old, it would
love and care for me.”
“And if you had a little child,” said the woman, rising up and
standing before the shepherd’s wife, “you think you would really love
it better than anything in the world. Many women say that, but few do
it. Before long a little child will be born to you, and as long as you
love it better than anything in the world it will remain with you, but
when you love anything else better than your little daughter and her
happiness, it will go from you; so remember my words. Good-bye,” and
the woman walked to the door and went quietly out into the rain, and
the shepherd’s wife saw her disappearing, and the rain pelting around
her, but her clothes were not blown about, neither did the rain seem to
wet her.
[Illustration]
A year passed away, and the shepherd’s wife had a tiny daughter, a
lovely little baby with the bluest eyes and the softest skin; the
evening she was born the wind howled and the rain fell as fiercely as
on the night when the grey woman had come into the shepherd’s cottage.
The shepherd and his wife both loved their little daughter very dearly,
as well they might, as no fairer child was ever seen. But as she grew
older, some things about her frightened her mother, and she had some
ways of which she could not cure her.
[Illustration]
She would never go near a fire, however cold she was, neither did she
love the sunshine, but always ran from it and crept into the shade;
but when she heard the rain pattering against the window-panes she
would cry, “Listen, mother, listen to my brothers and sisters dancing,”
and then she would begin to dance too in the cottage, her little feet
pattering upon the boards; or, if she possibly could, she would run
out on to the moor and dance, with the rain falling upon her, and her
mother had much ado to get her to come back into the cottage, yet she
never seemed to get very wet, nor did she catch cold.
[Illustration]
A river ran near the cottage, and by it she would go and sit for hours
dabbling her feet in the water, and singing sweet little songs to
herself.
[Illustration]
Still, in all other ways she was a good, affectionate girl, and did all
that her mother told her, and seemed to love both her parents tenderly,
and the shepherd’s wife would say to herself, “My only trouble is that
when she is grown up, she will want to marry, and leave me, and I shall
have to do without her.” Time passed, and the old shepherd died, but
his wife and daughter still lived on in the little cottage, and the
daughter grew to be a most beautiful young maiden. Her eyes were clear
light-blue, like the colour of the far-off sea, but it was difficult
to say what was the colour of her hair, save that it was very light,
and hung in heavy masses over her brow and shoulders. Once or twice her
mother felt sorely frightened about her; it was when spring showers
were falling, and the young girl had gone into the little garden in
front of the cottage to let the rain fall upon her head and face, as
she loved to do, in spite of all her mother could say. Then she began
to dance, as she always did when the rain fell, and as she danced the
sun came out while the rain was yet falling. Her mother watched her
from the cottage-window, but while she watched her it seemed to her
as if her daughter was covered with jewels of every colour, clear and
bright; they hung around her in chains, and made her look more like
a king’s daughter than a shepherd’s girl. “Come in, child, come in,”
called the shepherd’s wife, and when the young girl came in the cottage
all traces of the jewels had gone, and when her mother upbraided her
for going out to dance in the rain, she only answered, “It hurts no
one, my mother, and it pleases me, why should you stop me?”
[Illustration]
A little way from the cottage on the mountain-side stood an old castle,
where formerly the Kings of the land used to come and stay, but which
now had not been used for very many years. One day, however, the
shepherd’s wife saw great preparations were being made to beautify and
adorn it, and she knew that the King and his son were coming to stay
there again. Soon after they had arrived, the shepherd’s daughter went
down to the river, as was her wont, and sat on the bank, dipping her
feet in the ripples. Presently there came up a boat, and it was a grand
young man dressed all in velvet and gold who leaned over the side to
fish.
“Who are you, and what are you doing here?” cried the shepherd’s
daughter, for she was afraid of no one.
“I am the King’s son,” said he, “and I am coming here to fish. Who are
you, and where do you come from, for I have never seen such a beautiful
maiden in my life?” and he looked at her and could scarce speak, so
beautiful did she seem to him.
“It is cruel to take the fishes out of the water,” cried the shepherd’s
daughter, “leave them alone, and come and dance on the bank with me,”
and she went under the shade of a large tree, and began to dance, and
the King’s son watched her, and again he thought so beautiful a maid
there had never been.
[Illustration: “Leave the fishes alone, and come and dance on the bank
with me.”]
Day after day he came down to the river to fish, and day after day he
left the line and tackle to sit and watch the shepherd’s daughter, and
each time found her more enchanting. Once he tried to kiss her hand,
but she sprang from him and left him sitting in his boat alone. At last
a day came when the Prince said to his father, “My father, you want me
to wed so that I may have an heir to the throne, but there is only one
woman that can ever be my wife, and that is the daughter of the poor
woman who lives in the little cottage out yonder.”
At first the old King was very wroth, but he loved his son well, and
knew that nothing would shake him from his word, so he told him that if
he would bring home his bride, he too would rejoice and love her as his
daughter even though she be a beggar-maid. Then the young Prince rode
down to the cottage, and went in and told the shepherd’s wife how he
had seen her daughter, and loved her and wished to make her his wife,
so that she would be Queen of the country.
The shepherd’s wife went nearly wild with joy. “To think that my
daughter should be the Queen,” she said to herself, and when her
daughter came into the cottage she did not know how to contain herself,
but folded her in her arms and kissed her, crying and declaring that
never was woman so blessed.
“Why, what has happened, my mother? and what has pleased you so?” said
her daughter, while still the shepherd’s wife rejoiced and wept for joy.
“It is the King’s son, my girl, the King’s own son, and he has just
been here, and he loves you because you are so beautiful, and he will
marry you and make you Queen of all the land. Was there ever such luck
for a poor woman?”
But the daughter only said, “But I don’t want to marry the King’s son,
mother, or any one. I will never be the wife of any man; I will stay
with you and nurse you when you are old and sick, for I can live in no
house but this cottage, and have no friend but my mother.”
On hearing this the shepherd’s wife became very angry, and told her
daughter that she must be mad, and that she must wait for a day or two,
and she would be only too thankful for the love of the King’s son, and
for the honour he was going to do her in making her his Queen. But
still the daughter shook her head, and said quite quietly, “I will
never be the wife of the King’s son.” The shepherd’s wife did not dare
tell the King’s son what her daughter had said, but told him that he
had better speak to her himself if he wished to make her his wife. Then
when he was again sitting in the boat on the river, and the maiden on
the bank, the King’s son told her how much he loved her, and that he
would share with her all that he had in this world. But the shepherd’s
daughter only shook her head and said, “I will never live at the
palace, and I will never be a Queen.”