There was a blacksmith who lived near to a great, dark pine forest. He
was as poor as charity soup; but dear knows whether that was his fault
or not, for he laid his troubles upon the back of ill-luck, as everybody
else does in our town.
One day the snow lay thick all over the ground, and hunger and cold sat
in the blacksmith’s house. “I’ll go out into the forest,” says he, “and
see whether I cannot get a bagful of pine-cones to make a fire in the
stove.” So off he stumped, but could find no cones, because they were
all covered up with white. On into the woods he went, farther and
farther and deeper and deeper, until he came to a high hill, all of bare
rock. There he found a clear place and more pine-cones scattered over
the ground than a body could count. He filled his basket, and it did not
take him long to do that.
But he was not to get his pine-cones for nothing: click! clack!—a great
door opened in the side of the hill, and out stepped a little dwarf, as
ugly as ugly could be, for his head was as big as a cabbage, his hair as
red as carrots, and his eyes as green as a snake’s.
“So,” said he, “you are stealing my pine-cones, are you? And there are
none in the world like them. Look your last on the sunlight, for now you
shall die.”
Down fell the blacksmith on his knees. “Alas!” said he, “I did not know
that they were your pine-cones. I will empty them out of my sack and
find some elsewhere.”
“No,” said the dwarf, “it is too late to do that now. But listen, you
might hunt the world over, and find no such pine-cones as these; so we
will strike a bit of a bargain between us. You shall go in peace with
your pine-cones if you will give me what lies in the bread-trough at
home.”
“Oh, yes,” said the blacksmith, “I will do that gladly.”
“Very well,” said the dwarf, “I will come for my pay at the end of seven
days,” and back he went into the hill again, and the door shut to behind
him.
Off went the blacksmith, chuckling to himself. “It is the right end of
the bargain that I have this time,” said he.
But, bless you! he talked of that horse before he had looked into its
mouth, as my Uncle Peter used to say. For, listen: while his wife sat at
home spinning, she wrapped the baby in a blanket and laid it in the
bread-trough, because it was empty and as good as a cradle. And that was
what the dwarf spoke of, for he knew what had been done over at the
blacksmith’s house.
But the blacksmith was as happy as a cricket under the hearth; on he
plodded, kicking up the soft snow with his toes; but all the time the
basket of pine-cones kept growing heavier and heavier.
“Come,” said he, at last, “I can carry this load no farther, some of the
pine-cones must be left behind.” So he opened the basket to throw a
parcel of them out. But—
Hi! how he did stare! for every one of those pine-cones had turned to
pure silver as white as the frost on the window-pane. After that he was
for throwing none of them away, but for carrying all of them home, if he
broke his back at it, and upon that you may depend.
“And I had them all for nothing,” said he to his wife; “for the dwarf
gave them to me for what was in the bread-trough, and I knew very well
that there was nothing there.”
“Alas,” said she, “what have you done! the baby is sleeping there, and
has been sleeping there all the morning.”
When the blacksmith heard this he scratched his head, and looked up and
looked down, for he had burned his fingers with the hot end of the
bargain after all. All the same, there was nothing left but to make the
best that he could of it. So he took two or three of the silver
pine-cones to the town and bought plenty to eat, and plenty to drink,
and warm things to wear into the bargain.
[Illustration: The blacksmith takes y^e dwarf’s pine-cones.]
At the end of seven days up came the dwarf and knocked at the
blacksmith’s house.
“Well, and is the baby ready?” said he, “for I have come to fetch it.”
But the blacksmith’s wife begged and prayed and prayed and begged that
the baby might be spared to her. “Let us keep it for seven years at
least,” said she, “for what can you want with a young baby in the
house?”
Yes, that was very true. Young babies were troublesome things to have
about the house, and the woman might keep it for seven years since she
was anxious to do so. So off went the dwarf, and the woman had what she
wanted, for seven years is a long time to put off our troubles.
But at the end of that time up came the dwarf a second time.
“Well, is the boy ready now?” said he, “for I have come to take him.”
“Yes, yes,” says the woman, “the boy is yours, but why not leave him for
another seven years, for he is very young to be out in the world yet?”
Yes, that was true, and so the dwarf put off taking him for seven years
longer.
But when it had passed, back he came again, and this time it did no good
for his mother and father to beg and pray, for he had put off his
bargain long enough, and now he was for having what was his.
“All the same,” says he to the blacksmith, “if you will come after five
years to the place in the woods where you saw me, you shall have your
son, if you choose to take him.” And off he went with the lad at his
heels.
Well, after five years had passed, the blacksmith went into the forest
to find the dwarf and to bring back his son again.
There was the dwarf waiting for him, and in his hand he held a basket.
“Well, neighbor,” says he, “and have you come to fetch your son again?”
Yes, that was what the blacksmith wanted.
“Very well,” says the dwarf, “here he is, and all that you have to do is
to take him.” He opened the basket, and inside was a wren, a thrush, and
a dove.
“But which of the three is the lad?” says the blacksmith.
“That is for you to tell, neighbor,” says the dwarf.
The blacksmith looked and looked, and first he thought it might be the
wren, and then he thought it might be the thrush, and then he thought it
might be the dove. But he was afraid to choose any one of the three,
lest he should not be right in the choosing. So he shook his head and
sighed, and was forced at last to go away with empty hands.
Out by the edge of the forest sat an old woman spinning flax from a
distaff.
“Whither away, friend?” said she, “and why do you wear such a sorrowful
face?”
The blacksmith stopped and told her the whole story from beginning to
end. “Tut!” said the old woman, “you should have chosen the dove, for
that was your son for sure and certain.”
“There!” said the blacksmith, “if I had only known that in the first
place it would have saved me so much leg wear,” and back he went,
hot-foot, to find the dwarf and to get his son again.
There was the dwarf waiting for him with a basket on his arm, but this
time it was a sparrow and a magpie and a lark that were in it, and the
blacksmith might take which of the three he liked, for one of them was
his own son.
[Illustration: The blacksmith chooses y^e raven and runs away with it.
¶):(⁋]
The man looked and looked, and could make nothing of it, so all that he
could do was to shake his head and turn away again with empty hands.
Out by the edge of the forest sat the old woman spinning. “Prut!” says
she, “you should have chosen the lark, for it was your son for sure and
certain. But listen; go back and try again; look each bird in the eyes,
and choose where you find tears; for nothing but the human soul weeps.”
Back went the man into the forest for the third time, and there was the
dwarf just as before, only this time it was a sparrow and a jackdaw and
a raven that he had in his basket.
The man looked at each of the three in turn, and there were tears in the
raven’s eyes.
“This is the one I choose,” said he, and he snatched it and ran. And it
was his son and none other whom he held.
As for the dwarf, he stood and stamped his feet and tore his hair, but
that was all he could do, for one must abide by one’s bargain, no matter
what happens.
You can guess how glad the father and the mother were to have their son
back home again. But the lad just sat back of the stove and warmed his
shins, and stared into the Land of Nowhere, without doing a stroke of
work from morning till night. At last the father could stand it no
longer, for, though one is glad to have one’s own safe under the roof at
home, it is another thing to have one’s own doing nothing the livelong
day but sit back of the stove and eat good bread and meat; for the
silver pine-cones were gone by this time, and good things were no more
plentiful in the blacksmith’s house than they had been before.
“Come!” says he to lazy-boots one day, “is there nothing at all that you
can do to earn the salt you eat?”
“Oh, yes,” said the lad, “I have learned many things, and one over at
the dwarf’s house yonder, for the dwarf is a famous blacksmith.” So out
he came from behind the stove, and brushed the ashes from his hair, and
went out into the forge.
“Give me a piece of iron,” says he, “and I will show you a trick or two
worth the knowing.”
“Yes,” says the blacksmith, “you shall have the iron; all the same I
know that it is little or nothing that you know about the hammer and the
tongs.”
But the young fellow answered nothing. He made a bed of hot coals, and
laid the iron in it.
“Here,” said he to his father, “do you blow the bellows till I come
back, and be sure that you do not stop for so much as a wink, or else
all will be spoiled.” So he gave the handle into the blacksmith’s hand
and off he went.
The old man blew the bellows and blew the bellows, but the dwarf over in
the forest knew what was being done as well as though he stood in the
forge. He was not for letting the lad steal his tricks if he could help
it. So he changed himself into a great fly, and came and lit on the
blacksmith’s neck, and bit him till the blood ran; but the blacksmith
just shut his eyes tight, and grinned and bore it, and blew the bellows
and blew the bellows.
By and by the lad came in, and the fly flew away. He drew the iron out
of the fire, and dipped it in the water, and what do you think it was?
Why, a golden tree with a little golden bird sitting in the branches,
with bright jewels for its eyes.
The lad drew a little silver wand from his pocket, and gave the tree a
tap, and the bird began to hop from branch to branch, and to sing so
sweetly that it made one’s heart stand still to listen to it.
As for the blacksmith, he just stood and gaped and stared, with his
mouth and eyes as wide open as if they never would shut again.
Now there was no king in that country, but a queen who lived in a grand
castle on a high hill, and was as handsome a one as ever a body’s eyes
looked upon.
“Here,” says the lad to his father, “take this up to the queen at the
castle yonder, and she will pay you well for it.” Then he went and sat
down back of the stove again, and toasted his shins and stared at
nothing at all.
Up went the blacksmith to the queen’s castle with the golden bird and
the golden tree wrapped up in his pocket-handkerchief. Dear, dear, how
the queen did look and listen and wonder, when she saw how pretty it
was, and heard how sweetly the little golden bird sang. She called her
steward and bade him give the blacksmith a whole bag of gold and silver
money for it, and off went the man as pleased as pleased could be.
And now they lived upon the very best of good things over at the
blacksmith’s house; but good things cost money, and by and by the last
penny was spent of what the queen had given him, and nothing would do
but for the lad to go out and work a little while at the forge. So up he
got from back of the stove, and out he went into the forge. He made a
bed of coals and laid the iron upon it.
“Now,” says he to his father, “do you blow the bellows till I come
back,” and off he went.
Well, the old man took the handle and blew and blew, but the dwarf knew
what was going on this time, just as well as he had done before. He
changed himself into a fly, and came and lit on the blacksmith’s neck,
and dear, dear, how he did bite! The blacksmith shut his eyes and
grinned, but at last he could bear it no longer. He raised his hand and
slapped at the fly, but away it flew with never a hair hurt.
In came the lad and drew the iron out of the fire and plunged it into
the water, and there it was a beautiful golden comb that shone like
fire. But the lad was not satisfied with that. “You should have done as
I told you,” said he, “and have stopped at nothing; for now the work is
spoiled.”
The blacksmith vowed and declared that he had not stopped from blowing
the bellows, but the lad knew better than that; for there should have
been a golden looking-glass as well as the comb. The one was of no use
without the other, for when one looked in the golden looking-glass, and
combed one’s hair with the golden comb, one grew handsomer every day,
and the lad had intended both for the queen.
“All the same,” said the old man, “I will take the golden comb up to the
castle;” and it did no good for the lad to shake his head and say no.
“For,” says the father, “old heads are wise heads; and the queen will
like this as well as the other.” So up to the castle he would go, and up
to the castle he went.
But when the queen saw the golden comb her brows grew as black as a
thunder-storm. “Where is the looking-glass?” said she; and though the
old man vowed and declared that no looking-glass belonged with the comb,
she knew a great deal better. So, now, the blacksmith might have his
choice; he should either bring her the looking-glass that belonged to
the golden comb or bring her that which was the best in all the world.
If he did neither of these he should be thrown into a deep pit full of
toads and vipers.
Back went the old man home again and told the lad all that had happened
from beginning to end. And then he wanted to know what he should do to
get himself out of his pickle.
[Illustration: The blacksmith brings y^e wonderful little bird and tree
to y^e Queen.]
Well, it was no easy task to make what the queen wanted; all the same,
the lad would try what he could do. So he rolled up his sleeves and out
he went into the forge and laid a piece of iron upon the bed of hot
coals.
This time he would not trust the old man to blow the bellows for him,
but took the handle into his own hand and blew and blew.
The dwarf knew what was happening this time as well as before. He
changed himself into a fly and came and sat on the lad’s forehead, and
bit until the blood ran down into his eyes and blinded him; but the lad
blew the bellows and blew the bellows.
First the fire burned red, and then it burned white, and then it burned
blue, and after that the work was done.
Then the young man raised his hand and struck the fly and killed it, and
that was an end of the dwarf for good and all.
What he had made he dipped into the water and it was a gold ring,
nothing less nor more. He took a sharp knife and drew charms upon it,
and inside of the circle he wrote these words:
“WHO WEARS THIS SHALL HAVE THE BEST
THAT THE WORLD HAS TO GIVE.”
“Here,” said the lad to his father, “take this up to the queen, for it
is what she wants, and there is nothing better in the world.”
Off marched the old man and gave the ring to the queen, and she slipped
it on her finger.
That was how the blacksmith saved his own skin; but the poor queen did
nothing but just sit and look out of the window, and sigh and sigh.
After a while she called her steward to her and bade him go over and
tell the blacksmith’s son to come to her.
There sat the lad back of the stove. “Prut!” said he, “she must send a
better than you if she would have me come to her.” So the steward had
just to go back to the castle again and tell the queen what the lad had
said.
Then the queen called her chief minister to her. “Do you go,” said she,
“and bid the lad come to me.”
There sat the lad back of the stove. “Prut!” said he, “she must send a
better than you if she would have me come to her.”
[Illustration: The Young Smith forges the best that Life has to give.]
Off went the minister and told the queen what he had said, and the queen
saw as plain as the nose on her face that she must go herself if she
would have the lad come at her bidding.
There sat the lad back of the stove. And would he come with her now?
Yes, indeed, that he would. So he slipped from behind the stove and took
her by the hand, and they walked out of the house and up to her castle
on the high hill, for that was where he belonged now. There they were
married, and ruled the land far and near. For it is one thing to be a
blacksmith of one kind, and another thing to be a blacksmith of another
kind, and that is the truth, whether you believe it or not.
And did the queen really get the best in the world? Bless your heart, my
dear, wait until you are as old as I am, and have been married as long,
and you will be able to answer that question without the asking.
[Illustration: The End.]