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[Illustration: DR. MUMBUDGET'S DOOR-PLATE.]
THE SOCK STORIES,
BY "AUNT FANNY'S" DAUGHTER.
FUNNY BIG SOCKS:
BEING
THE FIFTH BOOK OF THE SERIES.
BY
"AUNT FANNY'S" DAUGHTER,
THE AUTHOR OF "THE LITTLE WHITE ANGEL."
NEW YORK:
LEAVITT & ALLEN, 21 & 23 MERCER ST.
1863.
ENTERED, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1862, by
S. L. BARROW,
In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States
for the
Southern District of New York.
JOHN F. TROW,
PRINTER, STEREOTYPER, AND ELECTROTYPER,
50 Greene Street, New York.
TO
THAT GENIAL GOOD MAN
AND PROFOUND PHILOSOPHER,
THE REV. DR. S. I. PRIME,
I DEDICATE THIS
BOOK.
CONTENTS OF VOL. V.
PAGE
STORM STORIES 7
THE CABBAGES 42
THE GOLD STONE 75
THE PHILOSOPHERS' TOUR 108
STORM STORIES.
FIRST EVENING.
HOW it did rain, to be sure! Up the long street, and down the long
street nothing was to be seen but large mud puddles, while the gutter
ran like a little river, and gushed with a loud sound into the sewer
mouth.
That was a rain indeed! but in the warm rooms it was comfortable enough.
Books and pretty pictures lined the walls on all sides but one, where
the large window was, the recess filled with blooming flowers; they
smelt so sweetly!
There, at a table that was covered with a green cloth, sat a literary
man. His head was bowed upon his arms; and when he raised his face, one
saw that he was so sad and pale! The poor literary man was quite
unhappy.
If one could have crept into his heart (like him who owned the "Galoshes
of Fortune"), one would have seen that his thoughts ran, "Ah me! how
unhappy I am. I write books about the good and the beautiful, but nobody
buys them; no one cares to read of such things. If I could but tell them
a tale, now, something lively or pathetic, like the poet Baggesen or our
own Hoffman, that they all like. Nay, then, what a weary life it is!"
and he leaned back in his arm chair, and closed his eyes.
Suddenly, something came hissing down the chimney into the stove. It was
two or three rain drops driven in by the wind. Something else appeared
to have entered with them, for there was a rustle and breeze in the
chamber, and then the literary man heard a whisper quite close to his
ear.
"Thou silly fellow!" cried the wind, for that it was, "to sit in thy
chamber with closed doors, waiting for the story to come to thee! Nay,
then, what is there in thy books half so clever or amusing as what one
sees in real life? Listen, now, and I will tell thee what I saw one
moonlight night as I blew over this wide German land."
THE STORY OF THE WIND.
IN summer, all the world--of Leipsic--goes out of town, to Baden or Ems.
Those who can afford it run over the Alps, to sunny Italy; but in
winter--ah! then it is very different!
One is glad enough, then, to remain at home by the warm stove; or if one
goes out, one must be well wrapped up in furs and cloaks.
The little boys slide and skate on the frozen river; the poorer folks go
about in sledges, and the rich in splendid sleighs, with white fur robes
and capering horses, which have little bells tied to their manes and
tails.
Just such a sleigh as this stood, one bright moonlight night, before the
door of the Burgomaster Von Geirstein, in the good town of Leipsic. The
whole family were going in a body out of town, and now the hall door
opened, and forth came the fat and stupid Burgomaster himself, with his
fat and silly wife on his arm, followed by their pretty, blue-eyed
daughter, Matilda, and her lover, Walther Von Blumenwald, a thriving
young merchant. Her brother, Max, came last, a merry, good-natured young
fellow, but who, certainly, was not very wise.
Max took the driver's place; the others seated themselves within the
large sleigh, and tucked the warm fur robes around them, and then, with
a crack of the whip, and a loud huzzah from the young men, the sleigh
glided swiftly away.
About five miles from the town, in the midst of the forest, was a large
inn of the better sort, which had lately become a favorite resort of the
wealthy who went sleighing in the winter. Balls, even, were given there,
and there one got the most delicious mulled wine and Westphalia hams,
and all sorts of ale, "Bremen," "Prysing," "Emser ale," even "Brunswick
Mumme." To this hotel, then, our party were bound.
Merrily rang the bells, swiftly flew the sleigh over the frozen snow,
and as they passed out at the city gates, the whole party broke into a
joyous glee:
"Listen, listen, listen to the merry sleigh bells!
How they jingle, jingle, ever blithe and ever clear,
With a tintinnabulation that so musically wells
As it thrills, and it thrills upon the ear!
Every dancing little note
Seems to gurgle from the throat
Of a bird, that in its happy song so eloquently tells
The joy it is to bound
O'er the cold and frozen ground,
To the ringing and the clinging of the bells!
"Listen, listen, listen to the merry sleigh bells!
How they jingle, jingle, as the horses dash along;
What a story of our gladness their enticing music tells
As it chimes and it rhymes with the song!
Such a rollicking delight
Bubbles out upon the night
As their joy-creating burthen over hill and valley swells.
Every voice must join the tune
As we skim beneath the moon
To the tinkling and the twinkling of the bells!"
The sleigh had now turned out of the high road, and entered the forest.
For some time the way lay plain before them, but at length came a fork,
where two roads met.
"Now, then," exclaimed Max, "which way? Blumenwald, thou hast been to
Ole's before--must I take the right hand or the left?"
"Upon my word, I have forgotten!" exclaimed Walther. "It was a dark
night when I drove out with my cousins; but, it appears to me, upon the
whole, that we took the right hand road."
"Well, we can only try," said Max; "at least, if we don't get to Ole's,
we shall have had a merry sleigh ride."
He shook the reins, and the impatient horses darted off; but, my stars!
they had taken the wrong road! Deeper grew the wood; the roughness of
the path momentarily increased; the trees became so thick that the
moonlight no longer penetrated them, and Max at length stopped his
horses once more, and gazed around him in bewilderment.
"Potstausend!" exclaimed the Burgomaster; "where has the boy taken us? I
tell you what, mein sonne, thou hadst best turn back, for we shall never
get to Ole's to-night."
"And thy sister will take her death of cold!" cried the Frau Von
Geirstein, while Walther looked anxiously at the fair Matilda, who only
smiled up at him, and drew her fur-lined hood more closely about her
face.
Just as they were about to turn back, they heard a sound of sleigh-bells
behind, and presently a small sleigh approached them, drawn by a
spirited horse.
Max, without more ado, hailed the stranger, and begged him to set them,
if he could, on the road to Ole's.
The new comer bowed courteously to the ladies, and replied, "I shall be
most happy to direct you thither, my respectable friends. In short,
then, you follow the road before you for a time, then turn to your
right; next, pursue your way in a southeast direction for a mile; next,
turn toward the northwest, and then----"
"What, sir!" interrupted Max, "do you suppose we can go to all points
of the compass at once? What do you mean by your northwest and
southeast?"
"Potstausend! is the fellow making fun of us?" exclaimed the
Burgomaster.
"Surely the Herr Von Geirstein cannot suppose I would be guilty of so
great an impertinence!" exclaimed the stranger. "It is true, the road is
somewhat obscure; may I not also have the pleasure of driving you to
Ole's?"
"We thank you--you are most kind," replied the mollified Burgomaster,
who never doubted for a moment that his vast importance caused him to be
known to all the world; "but what will become of your sledge?"
"Oh, I don't fear for the sledge--that can remain here among the
underwood; and my horse can be attached in front of yours."
This arrangement was soon effected, and the stranger, who was so muffled
up in fur cap and coat, that scarcely a feature could be distinguished,
mounted beside Max, and seized the reins.
Donnerwetter! how he shouted at the horses! cracking his whip, and
calling them all manner of strange names. "Now, then, pig with a wooden
head! Get along with you, toad of serpents! To the mischief with the
whole team!" till the foam flew on all sides, the iron-clad heels of the
steeds rang like hammer upon anvil on the frozen ground, and sparks
scintillated in the air!
Meanwhile, however, the effect of this rapid motion on the Burgomaster's
family was anything but exhilarating. Now that the bustle of setting out
was at an end, they one and all began to feel afraid of their strange
guide, and to think there was something more than common in their
adventure.
"He's a very odd-looking man, after all," whispered the Burgomaster's
wife; "how do we know what sort of a fellow he is, and if he is taking
us to Ole's at all? I, for my part, believe he's in league with some
robber band, and we shall all be murdered."
"Potstausend! it looks very much like it!" exclaimed the Burgomaster,
who, although so big a man, was mighty chicken-hearted. "I wish Max had
not been so confoundedly hasty in accepting his advice."
"I beg thy pardon there, father-in-law," returned Walther; "it was thou
who bade him come in."
The Burgomaster was about to make some peppery reply, when Max suddenly
broke upon the whispered conversation by exclaiming:
"Since you are so good, sir, as to drive us, perhaps you will inform us
to whom we are obliged."
But the stranger, who, before this, had been the noisiest of the party,
appeared to have become suddenly dumb, for he answered not a word.
"Come, sir," repeated Walther, "tell us who you are."
No answer.
Max now half jumped from his seat, exclaiming, "But we insist on
knowing, sir, and, furthermore, I should like to know if you are taking
us to Ole's or not."
The stranger turned at this, and with a smile that displayed his
glittering teeth, replied:
"My good people, I am taking you just where you are destined to go. As
to my name, that is my affair. Remember, your safety depends on me;
certainly, you had better not provoke me, or----" here his speech
suddenly came to an end, and a fresh series of yells followed to the
excited horses, which all this time were tearing along as though a troop
of fiends were in pursuit.
"It must be the Evil One himself!" cried the Burgomaster, trembling in
every limb, while the ladies screamed and clung together.
"Not quite so bad as that, I hope," said Walther, half laughing, yet
excited, and, to tell the truth, somewhat alarmed also.
"We are all fools if we allow this thing to go on!" shouted Max, who had
suddenly recovered his spirits. "Walther, thou wilt stand by me. Give me
the reins, sir, or hold them longer at your peril!"
As he spoke, he endeavored to seize the reins, while Walther stood up in
the sleigh and grasped the whip.
All at once the stranger let fall the reins, and as they trailed on the
ground, he snatched the whip from Walther's hand, gave a sudden leap
into the air, and vaulted on the back of the near horse, where he sat at
ease, and drove postillion, without their being able to help themselves.
"Alas, we have no arms!" groaned the Burgomaster; "we may as well be
resigned to our fate. Kiss me, my children; you may never kiss your old
papa again!"
On this, the whole quartette fell to weeping, blowing their noses most
earnestly from time to time, when, just as their grief was at its
height, and they were fairly sobbing in each other's arms, a sound of
music broke upon their ears! The next moment lights gleamed through the
trees, the sleigh took a sharp turn, passed through an open gate, and
drew up before the very door of--Ole's! For, in reality, both roads led
to the inn, although one was much more intricate and less frequented
than the other.
The Von Geirsteins were for a moment too much astounded to speak. Then
the mysterious driver, swinging himself lightly off his horse, and
doffing his fur cap, showing them a face not only handsome, but
perfectly familiar to them, exclaimed:
"You see, my dear friends, that it was neither a bandit nor His Satanic
Majesty who drove you by the nearest road to a robber's castle or the
lower regions, but your very good neighbor, Fritz Von Eisenfeldt, who
has had at once the pleasure and amusement of taking you safe and sound
to Ole's, after all!"
As the wind uttered these last words, it whisked up the chimney and
disappeared. The literary man sat upright in his chair with a sudden
start, and opened his eyes wide.
"Good heavens!" he cried, "have I been dreaming, or has the wind really
related the tale?" He could not at all tell this, but he remembered
every word of the story, and wrote it on--yes! this very piece of
paper, where you now read it!
SECOND EVENING.
THE following evening the literary man could not but think of the advice
of the wind. He went to the window, and looked out on the street, to see
if there might not be a story there.
The houses opposite were as handsome as on this side of the way, and
exactly like them; the gas lamps burned brilliantly, and everything
appeared as genteel and stupid as could possibly be conceived. "There's
not a story to be met with in this part of the town," thought the
literary man. "I must go out, and see if I can find one elsewhere."
The snow flakes were rapidly falling from the sky, but the literary man
wrapped his warm cloak around him, and went bravely out. It is not every
one who has courage to go out in the snow! that is, the snow at
Friedrichshafen. It is sure to be so wet and cold, with large bits of
icy hail among it, covering the ground with a slippery compound, that
one cannot step upon without danger of falling.
However, out he went, and slipped and scrambled along the pavement.
Kribbedy, krabbledy, plump! down he sat on a neighbor's doorstep; not
without exclaiming, "Potstausend!"
As he sat there with a rueful countenance, the thought passed through
his mind, "If, now, the wind would but give me the least idea how to
begin, I might compose a tale while I wait for a hackney coach, for walk
I won't!" and he looked up and down the street, but no coach came in
sight.
All at once it was as though a merry voice whispered in his ear--yes,
the literary man felt sure that the snow said to him "S-o-o! my good
friend, the wind has sent thee to me! Fie upon thee, that thou canst not
compose a tale without help, for all thy learning! Well, pay attention,
and I will tell thee some of the frolics of my merry cousin, the Frost.
Now, listen."
And the literary man listened with all his ears, and quite forgot that
he was looking for a hackney coach, and that he was sitting on the steps
of his neighbor, the Herr Hartman.
THE STORY OF THE SNOW, ABOUT CAPTAIN JACK.
THE children were hurrying homeward on a cold winter's evening, from the
forest, where they had been binding fagots. As they scampered along,
some one seized upon them from behind and nipped their ears sharply.
"Fie, ugly Captain Jack!" cried they; "so thou art at work again! one
may easily see that!" and they would have pursued their spiteful enemy;
but he was already gone, and they were now obliged to hasten onward.
Captain Jack had slipped back to the forest, and thrown himself
stealthily on the ground, laughing to see their discomfiture. The moon
shone on the spot where he lay, and then all the dried grass appeared
white and sparkling, as though it were covered with glistening spray. At
one moment one saw him lying gazing at one with laughing eyes; the next,
it seemed as though only the hoar dew rested there, and glittered in the
moonlight.
"Bur-r-r!" growled the north wind, as he flew through the forest.
"Hollo! Captain Jack; many thanks for the Ice King's message which thou
broughtest me. Come, wilt thou ride on my back in return?"
"Many thanks!" replied Captain Jack; "I prefer to travel on foot, and
amuse myself by the way."
"Well, be that as thou wilt!" replied the wind, and he flew off in a
huff; for he considered that he had made a very honorable offer, and had
been slighted.
But Captain Jack ran gayly from the forest; taking long strides over the
grass, and sowing it with little white pearls, breathing on the bare
branches of the trees, and sheathing them in glittering mail, pouncing
slyly on stray wayfarers, and pinching their ears and noses till they
roared again! Then Captain Jack laughed; it sounded like the sharp crack
of a pistol through the still air.
By the banks of the river hares were creeping, and complaining bitterly
of the cold. "Ah!" said they, "if we could but find a warm hole to creep
into, or if we had but thick, curly coats, like the bears!"
"Do you think I have a warm coat to give any one?" quoth Captain Jack,
and he breathed on their long whiskers, which now stood quite stiffly.
"Oh hute-tute-tute-tu!" cried they, hopping up and down with pain; "oh
my toes! my poor toes!"
Captain Jack also danced with merriment; he had neither soul nor
feeling, and couldn't understand being sorry for any one.
Over the river, the lights of the town were gleaming. They shone like
stars that had stooped a little lower from heaven. Captain Jack skipped
lightly across the waves rolling so softly from shore to shore, and as
he passed, the water smoothed out under his feet; it was as though some
one had placed upon it a thin sheet of glass.
He ran through the silent streets of the town, where all the world had
gone to sleep, and peered in at many casements. Sometimes he beheld the
good folks dreaming, with the hard, ugly frown still on their faces
which they had worn when they were awake; and then he slipped into the
room--yes, a key hole was large enough for him to creep through if he
chose! and breathed upon them so, that they shivered in their beds, in
spite of the warm eider down they had tucked around them. "The window
was open on a crack," they would say on the following day; but it needed
not a crack for Captain Jack to enter if he thought they deserved it!
In other chambers he beheld lovely little children, with the faces of
angels; or venerable grandsires; with their snowy hair floating over the
pillow, and then he drew the most beautiful pictures on the window pane,
to amuse them when they should wake. He crept slyly into the larders of
thrifty housewives, and, with a touch, made chickens and ducks hanging
there, quite stiff and tasteless; he skipped to the cistern, and
magically rendered the pump handle immovable; he ran about the streets
and played tricks with the bright gas lamps, and they went out, as
though a puff of wind had blown over them. And, last of all, he ran
against a stout Burgomaster, returning homeward from a merry supper, and
so pinched the end of his red bottle-nose, that it tingled again!
"I'll have you taken to prison, you scoundrel!" roared the Burgomaster;
but how was he to find Captain Jack? Only where a large fire was raging
did Captain Jack shrink away in haste; heat did not seem to agree with
him, for he looked strangely small and shrunken.
He was now weary of the city, and hastened lightly to the seaside. In
the harbor ships lay at anchor, ice-bound; and on one of these a young
sailor was keeping watch for thieves; but he saw not Captain Jack coming
softly on board, and peering over his shoulder to see what was written
on the paper he held in his hand. A lantern hung from the mast and shed
a feeble light on the tear-blistered page, where the pious mother
implored a blessing on her son. As he read, the young sailor also wept;
but Captain Jack had no taste for tears. He breathed on the letter, and
the sparkling drops that the reader let fall became beads of ice. The
sailor hastily turned, and for a moment fancied he beheld the brilliant
eyes of Captain Jack gazing upon him; but the next instant he saw only
two glittering icicles, which had formed on the ropes.
The sea gulls flew in circles round the vessel; late as it was, they
still hoped something might be thrown out. Captain Jack caught them by
the long feathers of their wings, and they tumbled on the deck, and
hopped stiffly about. "Creesh, creesh!" cried they; "it is that villain,
Captain Jack, who has served us thus! Ugh! how stiff we are!"
Crick, crack! sounded through the air. It was Captain Jack laughing at
them.
"How merry it is in winter!" he cried. "It is there my uncle, the Ice
King, holds his court in the palace at the North Pole. The great
icebergs come crashing to the very door to do him homage, and the white
young lady bears dance the Polonaise so gracefully! We don't spend a
moment in silly thought about anything--no! we frisk and caper about,
and even my uncle comes down from his throne and hops around, as well as
his age will permit! and there I have such glorious sport in the long
moonlight nights!"
"Bur-r-r!" grumbled the north wind, sweeping by. "Thou hadst better
hurry home, thou silly madcap! The sun is coming, and he is no friend of
thine!"
"Many thanks!" cried Captain Jack again, with a graceful bow; "I see,
truly, that my sport is over for to-night!" and he now looked about him
with mischievous eyes, to see if there were not some last trick that he
could play before he fled to his forest cave. But there was no time to
lose, for already the round red sun, winking and blinking sleepily
behind his bed curtains of red clouds, was rising from the sea; and,
with a sudden leap, Captain Jack flung himself off the ship, and
hastened away.
The river was all covered with ice; the little hares skipped over it; in
the town everybody was bawling for water, and the pump handles were hard
and fast; the Burgomaster had his nose tied up in brown paper and warm
vinegar; the naughty people went about with cricks in their necks and
colds in their heads; while every withered grass blade, every branch of
tree and bush, and every pane in the windows, was covered with the
beautiful, fantastic, glittering handiwork of CAPTAIN JACK FROST!
* * * * *
As the story ended, the door above suddenly opened, and the Herr Hartman
himself came out; and certainly looked somewhat surprised at seeing his
good friend sitting there on the lower step.
"Why, my dear Herr Ekstein!" he exclaimed. "Is anything the matter?" and
he hastened down the steps.
The literary man jumped up, and saw the Herr holding out his hand.
"Nay, then, my good friend!" he exclaimed, "I have been hearing the
merriest tale!"
"But come in! come in!" cried the Herr Hartman. "Some of our friends are
with us; let us spend a sociable evening together."
With a pleased and happy face the literary man entered the house, and
the warm room, where the company were assembled; and, amid peals of
laughter, related both the story of Captain Jack, and that of the
sleigh-ride to Ole's, with the deuse himself as driver!
THE CABBAGES;
OR, THE DISCREET WIFE.
IN a remote part of Swabia there once dwelt a rich peasant, who was
noted in all the neighborhood for his shrewdness. No one could get the
better of him in a bargain, and no man managed his farm with such
extraordinary success. His crops always seemed to flourish when the
whole country round was desolated with the blight; his hay was sure to
be got in the very night before a flood swept away the ricks of his
neighbors; his cows gave the most milk, his oxen were the fattest, and
his fields the most fruitful of the whole valley. In short, Wise Peter,
for so he was called, became wealthy year after year, in a way which
made his less fortunate neighbors shake their heads enviously, declaring
"that such marvellous good luck could only be obtained by a bargain with
the Evil One, or the assistance of gnomes." Whenever any of these
stories came to the ears of Wise Peter, he would smile and say, "Ah! who
knows, indeed!" but not a word more would he utter.
Among his other possessions, Wise Peter owned an immense field, which
was planted entirely with cabbages. If one stood in the middle and
gazed around, nothing but cabbages and more cabbages grew, as far as the
eye could reach; and as the fat burghers of the town were all extremely
fond of sauerkraut, these were a source of great profit.
It happened that Peter had a wife as well known for her folly and empty
head, as her husband for his sagacity; and as he was rightly named Wise
Peter, so was she equally well called Silly Catharine. How the two came
to be united was a mystery to every one; for certain it is, that Silly
Catharine had nothing to recommend her to a sensible man, but her being
young and pretty.
Now Silly Catharine, who was as witless as she could well be, was
fonder of cabbages than anything else in the world. She ate sauerkraut
for breakfast, cabbage soup for dinner, fried cabbage for supper, and
boiled cabbage for a noonday treat. Not even the constant scoldings of
her husband, or the jeers of the neighbors at her folly, could distress
her in any great degree, if she had only plenty of cabbages.
One morning, Wise Peter loaded his wagon with grain and started off to
sell it at the distant market town, a good day's journey to and from the
village. "Now, Catharine," he said to his wife as he departed, "I want
you to keep your wits about you, such as you possess, while I am gone;
therefore attend to me. You must give orders that the men reap the
wheat in the large field, take care that the young turkeys do not get
among the brambles, and, above all, see that no one enters the little
storeroom. They are going to tax every one who is worth five hundred
guilders and over; and as I don't choose to give my hard earnings for
the support of a parcel of lazy nobles and a useless court, I have
hidden all the money bags there; therefore, be careful that nobody knows
of it but yourself." So saying, Peter mounted his wagon and drove off.
Silly Catharine looked after him as long as he could be seen, and then
went back to the kitchen, determined to show her husband how clever she
had become.
"Shall I go and tell the goose girl to hunt the turkeys into the coop
first?" thought she; "or shall I put on the cabbage to boil? I think I
will set my cabbage on first; it will take but a moment, the turkeys are
safe till then."
So she went to the larder, got out a fine large cabbage, and hung the
pot over the fire, that it might boil quickly. The steam of the cabbage
cooking ascended to her nose with a delicious perfume, and at last, what
with hanging over the pot enveloped in steam, and the heat of the fire,
she felt very drowsy, and falling into her chair, was soon soundly
asleep. She had not slept long before in came the goose girl, whose
business it was to take charge of the fowls of all sorts, crying out,
"Oh, mistress! mistress: the turkeys have got among the brambles, and
cannot get out!"
"Mercy upon us!" exclaimed Catharine, springing up and wringing her
hands; "what will Peter say to me! He will, doubtless, break his stick
over my shoulders. If it were not for the cabbage on the fire, I should
certainly throw myself from the window!" So saying, she ran out into the
field, but too late; the little turkeys were all in the very middle of a
bramble bush, which had tangled in their feathers, until it was
impossible to get them out; beside which, a fox had entered the barn
yard in the goose girl's absence, by the gate, which she had carelessly
left swinging open, and carried off the biggest and handsomest Poland
rooster, that Wise Peter valued even more than the turkeys. About this
last loss, however, she said nothing, hoping that her mistress wouldn't
remark it. This, indeed, proved to be the case; for, without noticing
the absence of poor Chanticleer, Catharine burst into tears, exclaiming,
"What is to be done? The only way is to cut the bush down."
[Illustration: THE FATE OF POOR CHANTICLEER.]
As she spoke, she seized an axe, and with one blow felled the bush to
the ground. But what was her horror to find, as she let fall the axe,
that she had also struck off the heads of every one of the turkeys!
"Oh heavens! what a misfortune!" cried Catharine; "I am the most unlucky
woman in the world! _Now_ Wise Peter will not leave a whole bone in my
body! Alas, the turkeys would have sold for eight skillings apiece when
they had grown fat and big! The only thing that consoles me is, that I
shall have such a famous supper ready for him. When he tastes my fine
cabbage soup, I am sure he must forget to be vexed!" There were still,
however, the bodies of the turkeys to see after; so she took out her
needle and thread, sewed the heads of the turkeys on their necks, and
set them upright in the coop, that they might look as though they were
still alive.
After this precious piece of cleverness, Silly Catharine returned to the
house to see how her cabbage came on. But she had been gone so long that
the water in the pot had all boiled away, and the cabbage was burning on
hard and fast to the bottom of the pot. "Why, bless me! where can the
water have gone to?" cried Silly Catharine. "It must have all drawn up
chimney! Nevertheless, it would be a pity to lose it; full of the
cabbage juice as it was, it might well have been made into soup; and
Wise Peter has told me a hundred times never to waste anything. I will
get something to let down the chimney and see if I can dip it up."
So saying, she began to look about for a rope long enough to reach down
the chimney; but she couldn't find one. All at once her eye fell on the
bucket standing outside the well. Joyfully rushing to it, she cut the
rope, and dragging the bucket after her, scrambled out on the roof, and
began letting it down the chimney. While she was thus engaged, a poor
little frightened swallow, who had built its nest there, suddenly flew
up the chimney and darted right in her face. Silly Catharine was so much
frightened, that she gave a loud scream and let go of the rope. The
bucket, of course, fell into the middle of the fire, and in a twinkling
was burnt to cinders. Down from the roof, and into the kitchen, rushed
Catherine, but too late; nothing save the iron hoops now remained of the
bucket.
"What shall I do?" cried Silly Catharine. "Not an hour passes but some
new misfortune occurs. Alas! I am no longer able to draw water for my
soup! but stay, I think of a way!" So saying, she took the pot from the
hook, tied a rope to the handle, let it down the well, with the cabbage
still in it, and when it was filled carried it back to the house, and
hung it over the fire.
Soon afterward the dairy maid went to draw some water for dinner. She
could not find the bucket; so she let down a milk pail instead; but
when she came to taste the water, she tasted also the flavor of the
cabbage, and ran to her mistress, calling out, "Why, mistress, who has
been meddling with our fine well? It had once the best water in the
neighborhood, but now the flavor is precisely that of a greasy, horrible
cabbage!"
"Nonsense!" cried Silly Catharine, with an air of contempt; "it is all
your fancy. Don't tell me that water can taste of cabbages!" Her heart
beat with affright, however, and as soon as the servant maid had left
the room, she ran in great terror to the wine cellar. "What the servant
said must have been true," thought she; "and Wise Peter will never
forgive me when he finds out that I have spoilt the well. I will,
therefore, pour some wine into the water, to take away the taste of the
cabbages." So saying, she seized one of the wine barrels, and in the
strength of terror she managed, with great difficulty, to push it up the
cellar stairs, and roll it through the kitchen out to the well. Then she
removed the spile and tilted the cask forward; when out streamed at
least thirty gallons of the finest Tokay down the well!
Having done this, Silly Catharine hid the barrel away with great
precipitation; and, determined to leave nothing else undone, she called
the reapers and bid them go directly to the large field and reap the
wheat. Then she went back, and began eating her dinner, saying, "Thank
heaven, I have a good dinner to sit down to, at least; there are always
cabbages enough!"
Meanwhile, the reapers made ready to go a-field; and before they went,
one of them drew a bucket of water to carry with them. But no sooner had
they tasted the water, than they cried out, "'Tis wine! the finest
wine!" and scarcely able to believe their senses, they drew up bucket
after bucket of this new liquor, drank till they became drunk, and then
tumbled senseless among the wheat; for it happened that the well was
very low, and what they drew was nearly all wine. While they lay there,
a violent hail storm came on, and in an hour's time the whole of the
wheat was beaten to the ground, drenched, crushed, and ruined.
Unconscious of this fresh misfortune, Silly Catharine prepared her soup
for supper, and then, having finished her work, she sat down in the
front porch and began to knit, feeling as if at last all her troubles
were over. Presently the gate was opened, and a man entered the garden.
It was he who was appointed to gather the tax, and knowing Wise Peter to
be well off, it was to his house that he first came.
"Oh, you are very much mistaken if you think I will pay your outrageous
tax!" cried Silly Catharine. "No, no! Wise Peter would know better than
that, and his wife will not be behind hand! He told me before he went
that he had no money to pay, and if he had, he wouldn't give it to
support your lazy nobles; so be off with you!"
While Catharine had been making this tirade, the tax gatherer, to whom
she had unwittingly given a valuable hint, hit upon a new plan by which
to secure his guilders. So as she paused, out of breath, he exclaimed,
in a contemptuous tone: "There is no use in making such a noise, good
woman; I see plainly that I was a fool to suppose the owner of this
beggarly house was worth five hundred guilders. Five kreutzers would be
much nearer the mark!"
"What! do you dare to call the house of Wise Peter beggarly!" cried
Catharine in a rage; "beggarly, indeed! you could never get such a fine
one if you live a thousand years."
"And I repeat that it is a beggarly house," said the other; "with a
poor, miserable family in it."
"You don't believe me?" screamed Silly Catharine; "well, then I'll show
you what you call poor; a pretty thing, indeed, that you should say we
are a beggarly family!" And, bouncing from her seat, she led the tax
gatherer to the store room, and dragging the money bags from their
concealment, she opened them triumphantly, saying, "There, what do you
call _that_?"
"At least a thousand guilders!" exclaimed the tax gatherer, astonished
at seeing so much more than he had expected. "So, you refuse to pay the
tax when you have all this money in the house! I confiscate it all in
the name of the king, and you may think yourself lucky if you and your
precious husband (who must be wise, since he married such a wife as
you), don't get thrown into prison besides." So saying, he snatched up
the bags of guilders, while Catharine stood staring at him in mute
horror, and in an instant was out of the house, and gone on his way.
Nearly stunned with this new mishap, Catharine burst into tears, and ran
down stairs crying, as though her heart would break. "What is to become
of me," she sobbed, "when Peter comes home? He will certainly kill me
for having shown the tax gatherer the money! Nevertheless, what could I
do? It was impossible to have people say that Wise Peter was a beggarly
creature--I could not allow that!" and, a little re-assured, she dried
her eyes and went to taste the soup. It was nearly done, and tasted
deliciously. "Ah!" cried Silly Catharine, "the soup is better than
usual! It quite repays me for all to think that we still have the finest
cabbages!"
In the mean time, one of the reapers, who had drank less wine than the
others, woke up sober, and as soon as he found he could stand on his
legs, he ran post haste to the village to relate the wonderful tale. The
place being small and the gossips many, it was not half an hour before
the whole population knew the extraordinary occurrence that had taken
place. Even the cure, the magistrate, and the doctor rushed into the
street to hear the news, and a pretty uproar there was. "Said I not
truly that Wise Peter was in league with the Evil One?" exclaimed one,
"for only thus can the miracle of a spring of wine be accounted for."
"True, true!" cried the listeners; "a wizard he must be; and that of a
right dangerous sort!"
Just at this moment, the wagon of Wise Peter was seen coming along the
road. The impatient villagers could not wait for him to approach them,
but rushed toward the wagon and surrounded it on every side. "How now,
wretched wizard!" they one and all shouted; "dare you look us in the
face when we have found you out in your sorceries? Away with you to
prison!" and, so saying, they laid hold of Wise Peter, dragged him out
of the wagon, and bore him toward the magistrate. In vain the wretched
man begged for some explanation, declared a hundred times over that he
was no wizard, but an honest peasant; they only shouted, tauntingly, "A
pretty story for a man who turns his well springs into the finest wine!
no wizard, indeed! say, rather, a wizard of the worst kind!"
With these words, they hauled him before the magistrate, where, again,
the reaper repeated his story, adding, by way of proof, "If you don't
believe me, go and see the other reapers; there they lie drunk, where I
left them."
"You hear what this honest man says," said the magistrate. "We have long
suspected you of sorcery, but this proves the matter at once. Either you
must forfeit a hundred guilders, as ordained by law in such cases, or
you must go to prison."
Almost distracted, Wise Peter exclaimed, "You have seen fit, worthy
magistrate, to accuse me of a crime of which, so far from being guilty,
I know nothing whatever. When I left home this morning, I swear the
water was as fresh and pure as possible. I know that some envious people
had long accused me of practising black arts, and if Industry and
Prudence are black arts, I am certainly guilty; but in this matter of
the water, I am as innocent as my own wife!"
"All this is very fine," answered the magistrate; "but it happens that
the bewitched water can be produced;" and turning to the reaper, he
said, "Have you any of this water about you?"
"Yes, worthy magistrate," replied the reaper; "as I came away from the
field, I filled my flask with what was left, and brought it with me."
The flask was handed to Peter, and no sooner had he tasted it, than he
fell back aghast, exclaiming, "Good heaven, it _is_ wine! and very like
Tokay!"
"What! you confess it yourself?" cried the magistrate. "Don't hope,
then, for mercy! You shall now pay two hundred guilders, or go to prison
for a year!"
"Mercy! mercy!" cried the unfortunate man, falling on his knees.
"Consider my family, worthy magistrate; do not disgrace them by sending
me to prison! I see the water has been changed, but not by me; and
though you will not believe me, I can solemnly assure you, with perfect
truth, that I am innocent."
"Pay or go to prison!" answered the magistrate inexorably.
With many tears and groans, the unlucky Peter drew a purse full of
guilders from his pocket and paid over the whole proceeds of his sale of
wheat, which only amounted to a hundred and five guilders; the
magistrate remarking that he would let him off with that if he would
solemnly swear never to practise the black art any more, and to
unbewitch his well as speedily as possible. This Peter did, in despair
of bringing them to reason, and having been thus severely punished for a
crime he was utterly guiltless of, he mounted his wagon again, and rode
home in a state of mind that can better be imagined than described.
When he reached his own home he rapped on the window as usual, to warn
his wife, and Catharine rushed out to meet him, and, throwing her arms
round his neck, cried, "Oh, Peter, I am so glad you have returned; the
good cabbage soup is all ready for you; so come right in and eat it!"
"Eat!" exclaimed Wise Peter, "how can I swallow a mouthful when I am so
overwhelmed with misfortune?"
"What! you also!" said Catharine; "alas! what has happened?"
[Illustration: PETER'S RETURN HOME.]
With accents that trembled with rage and grief, Wise Peter told how
he had been treated in the village; but he had scarcely made an end
before Catharine, bursting into tears, exclaimed, "Oh, what will become
of me! Have mercy, Peter, for it was I who poured the wine down the
well!"
"Poured wine down the well!" cried Peter, starting in astonishment;
"then, for heaven's sake, why did you do that?"
"Because," sobbed his wife, "the water tasted of cabbages!"
"Of cabbages!" repeated the peasant, in greater surprise than ever, "and
what made it taste of cabbages?"
"Because I dipped up water in the cabbage pot," cried Silly Catharine.
"And where was the bucket?" asked her husband.
"I burnt it, trying to dip the water out of the chimney, that had been
drawn up from the cabbage pot!" gasped Catharine, feeling that
everything must now be told, since she had begun.
Wise Peter took two or three strides across the room in silence; then,
making a violent effort to speak quietly, he said, "And why, Catharine,
since you supposed that water could be drawn up a chimney, did you leave
the pot unwatched?"
Almost in a scream, Silly Catharine broke out, "Because I was sewing on
the turkeys' heads that I struck off cutting down the bramble bush!!"
"Now, was ever any man tormented with such a fool of a wife!" shouted
Peter, almost beside himself with rage. "I could beat you with pleasure
for acting so witlessly, but that, alas! would not pay for what you have
lost for me this day. A hundred and five guilders of my precious money
have I been made to pay for your foolery, besides losing my Tokay wine,
my field of wheat, and all my fine young turkeys! at least a hundred
guilders more!"
"Oh, and that's not the worst!" cried Catharine.
"What! is there any more to come?" exclaimed Peter, almost out of his
senses.
"Yes," stammered Silly Catharine; "the man came here to gather the tax,
and I told him, as you said, that you were far too clever to pay it, and
that he would get nothing more out of me. Then he said you were a
beggarly fellow, not worth five kreutzers, and, of course, I couldn't
allow that; so I showed him the guilders in the store room, to prove
that he spoke falsely, and he took every one of them! I am so sorry, but
never mind, there is excellent cabbage soup for supper!"
At this, Peter could restrain himself no longer, and falling upon Silly
Catharine, he trounced her well with his stick, until she cried out for
mercy. "There!" he said at last, throwing down the stick, "you have
been well punished, though not half enough to pay for the mischief you
have done."
Silly Catharine dried her eyes upon her apron, and with a reproachful
look exclaimed, "Still you have beaten me, Wise Peter, for what I could
not help; for, if the turkeys had not been killed, I should never have
stayed away so long; if the water had not flown up chimney, I should not
have burnt the bucket; and if the well had not tasted of cabbages, I
should not have thrown in the wine. And, above all, dear Peter, if that
abominable man spoke ill of you, how could I, your wife, avoid showing
him that he lied? Besides, the case is not so bad; we have lost nearly
all, it is true; but, thank heaven, we still have delicious cabbages!"
In spite of himself, Wise Peter could not help bursting out laughing.
"After all, Catharine," he exclaimed, "I see you did not intend doing me
any harm; if you are a fool, that, certainly, is not your fault;
therefore, in future let us never be separated. Come, you pretty goose,
let us go and eat cabbage soup."
So saying, Wise Peter kissed his wife's blooming cheek, and led her into
the house. They sat down with contented hearts to the nice, smoking
soup, and after supper walked out among the spreading cabbages.
THE WONDERFUL LEGEND OF THE GOLD STONE.
IN those far away times when the world was yet in its baby clothes, and
people were not as wise as they are nowadays, there dwelt in the good
town of London a poor tailor's apprentice named Bartlemy Bowbell. He
might be called poor in a double sense; for not only was he such a lazy,
idle fellow that he scarcely ever took a stitch, and so seldom had a
copper of his own, but he was a miserable workman, and, like an
organ-grinder's monkey, or a blind man's dog, obtained more kicks than
halfpence.
In the same room with him were several other tailors; who sang together
one of two tunes as they stitched. If they were paid for every day's
work, be it much or little, they sang, "By the d-a-y! by the d-a-a-y! by
the d-a-a-a-y!" and the needles went in and out as slowly as the coaches
of a funeral procession; but if they were paid for every garment they
finished, then they sang, "By the job! by the job! by the job!" and the
needles stitched away like an express train! Bartlemy, however, crossed
his legs, put his thimble firmly on, and stitched briskly for five
minutes; then his attention would wander, and presently, dropping work,
thimble, shears, and needle, he began singing to himself,
"Oh, if I were only possessed of my riches,
I never would sew on a pair of old breeches!
Thimbles and thread!
Buttons and braid!
Oh, who would be bound to this rascally trade?
"If money I had, I'd be free from all care,
And what _master_ must _make_, _I_ should have but to _wear!_
Needles and pins!
Shears and cloth ends!
When the work's ended then pleasure begins!"
"What's that you're singing about riches?" cried his master, sharply;
"Riches, forsooth! you will die in the poor house, I can tell you, if
you don't stitch more diligently! Come, sew away! sew away!" So saying,
he gave him a good thwack with his yard stick, to make him continue
working.
[Illustration]
All the beatings in the world, however, could not thump out of Bartlemy
Bowbell a belief that had got into his head that he should one day
become rich and famous, through the agency of a wonderful jewel called
the Gold Stone. As I said, people, in those days, were by no means so
wise as they are at present, and so it fell out that the most learned
philosophers of that olden time believed as firmly as did the tailor's
apprentice in the existence of this Gold Stone, the peculiar property of
which was, that if it came in contact with any common metal, it changed
it, on that instant, into gold. Now, this story had come to the ears of
Bartlemy Bowbell, and by one of those odd cranks that not overwise
people sometimes take in their heads, he was perfectly persuaded that,
sooner or later, he was fated to find the miraculous gem.
Matters soon rose to such a pitch, as may easily be seen, that his
master finally turned him out of doors, saying "that he ate more than he
would ever earn."
"Very well, master," quoth Bartlemy, "I don't regret your goose and
cabbage!" and having said this, he ran away as hard as he could,
dropping one of his slipshod shoes as he went along, with his master
pursuing after, yard stick in hand, whom, however, he soon contrived to
outstrip.
[Illustration]
As he had not earned a penny during the week, he was entirely without
money, and nobody would lodge a shabby apprentice with only one shoe,
for nothing. He wandered on until he was clear of London and in the open
fields, begging of those he met on the road, but who always replied to
his solicitation, "Why don't you go to work, you lazy 'prentice?" for
they knew what he was, because he wore a 'prentice's flat cap. Worst of
all, night now came on, and Bartlemy was at last compelled to lie down
beneath a tree, where he soon fell asleep. The moon rose high, and still
Bartlemy snored, when, all of a sudden, he was roused by a smart blow on
the shoulder from what he could have sworn was a yard stick.
"Needles and pins!" cried Bartlemy, sitting up in haste; "what's that?"
"Bartlemy Bowbell," croaked a strange voice, "look at me."
Bartlemy looked round, and to his extreme terror, saw standing beside
him a being whom he could only suppose to be a goblin. He was not more
than four feet high, with very bow legs, as though from a constant habit
of tucking them up on a tailor's shop board; his clothes, fashioned from
odd bits of velvet and cloth such as tailors call "cabbage," or, as we
should say, the pieces of the customers' stuff left from their
coats--were trimmed with thimbles for bell buttons; on his head was a
tailor's cotton nightcap, with a long tassel, and hanging at his waist
were an immense pair of shears, and a pincushion bristling with needles
and pins. In one hand he carried the yard stick with which he had struck
the luckless 'prentice, and in the other a tailor's goose, or flat iron.