Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Charles Franks
and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team
JOURNEYS THROUGH BOOKLAND
A NEW AND ORIGINAL
PLAN FOR READING APPLIED TO THE
WORLD'S BEST LITERATURE
FOR CHILDREN
BY
CHARLES H. SYLVESTER
Author of English and American Literature
VOLUME TWO
New Edition
1922
CONTENTS
AESOP
THE FALCON AND THE PARTRIDGE (From the Arabian Nights)
MINERVA AND THE OWL
THE SPARROW AND THE EAGLE (From the Arabian Nights)
THE OLD MAN AND DEATH
INFANT JOY ........ William Blake
THE BABY ........ George MacDonald
THE DISCONTENTED STONECUTTER (From the Japanese)
DISCREET HANS ........ Wilhelm and Jakob Grimm
THE POPPYLAND EXPRESS ........ St. Louis Star Sayings
BLUEBEARD
LULLABY
RUMPELSTILTZKIN ........ Jakob and Wilhelm Grimm
THE MIRROR OF MATSUYANA (From the Japanese)
A CONTRAST
THE GOLDEN TOUCH ........ Nathaniel Hawthorne
THE CHILD'S WORLD ........ W. B. Rands
THE FIR TREE ........ Hans Christian Andersen
HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN
PICTURE BOOKS IN WINTER ........ Robert Louis Stevenson
HOW THE WOLF WAS BOUND ........ Adapted by Anna McCaleb
THE DEATH OF BALDER ........ Adapted by Anna McCaleb
THE PUNISHMENT OF LOKI ........ Adapted by Anna McCaleb
SEVEN TIMES ONE ........ Jean Ingelow
SHUFFLE-SHOON AND AMBER-LOCKS ........ Eugene Field
AFTERWHILE ........ James Whitcomb Riley
WINDY NIGHTS ........ Robert Louis Stevenson
THE SNOW QUEEN ........ Hans Christian Andersen
THE CHIMERA ........ Nathaniel Hawthorne
A VISIT FBOM ST. NICHOLAS ........ Clement C. Moore
THE STORY OF PHAETHON
THE ENGLISH ROBIN ........ Harrison Weir
TOM, THE WATER BABY ........ Charles Kingsley
THE MILKMAID ........ Jeffreys Taylor
HOLGER DANSKE ........ Hans Christian Andersen
WHAT THE OLD MAN DOES is ALWAYS RIGHT ........ Hans Christian Andersen
THE FAIRIES OF CALDON-LOW ........ Mary Howitt
WHO STOLE THE BIRD'S NEST? ........ L. Maria Child
THE FIRST SNOWFALL ........ James Russell Lowell
THE KING OF THE GOLDEN RIVER ........ John Ruskin
THE STORY OF ESTHER
THE DARNING-NEEDLE ........ Hans Christian Andersen
THE POTATO ........ Thomas Moore
THE QUEEN OF THE UNDERWORLD
ORIGIN OF THE OPAL
IN TIME'S SWING ........ Lucy Larcom
WHY THE SEA IS SALT ........ Mary Howitt
PRONUNCIATION OF PROPER NAMES
For Classification of Selections, see General Index at end of Volume X.
ILLUSTRATIONS
KAY AND GERDA AT PLAY AMONG THE FLOWEBS ... (Color Plate) Arthur
Henderson
AESOP (Halftone) ..... From Painting by Velasquez
THE OWL ..... Herbert N. Rudeen
THE SPARROW AND THE EAGLE ..... Herbert N. Rudeen
INFANT JOY ..... Lucille Enders
JAPANESE GATE ..... Herbert N Rudeen
THE STONECUTTER AND HIS SILKEN COUCH ..... Herbert N. Rudeen
EVERYTHING REJOICED IN A NEW GROWTH ..... Herbert N. Rudeen
BLUEBEARD ..... Herbert N. Rudeen
THE PASS KEY ..... Uncredited
SHE SLIPPED SILENTLY AWAY ..... Herbert N. Rudeen
SISTER ANN WATCHING FROM THE TOWER ..... Herbert N. Rudeen
RUMPELSTILTZKIN ..... Herbert N. Rudeen
AWAITING THE RETURN OF THE FATHER ..... Herbert N. Rudeen
JAPANESE LANTERN ..... Herbert N. Rudeen
HER GREATEST PLEASURE WAS TO LOOK INTO THE MIRROR ..... Herbert N.
Rudeen
YEARNING LOVE ..... Lucille Enders
THE FIGURE OF A STRANGER IN THE SUNBEAM ..... Arthur Henderson
MARYGOLD WAS A GOLDEN STATUE ..... Arthur Henderson
THE CHILD'S WORLD ..... Marion Miller
THE SWALLOWS AND THE STORK CAME ..... Herbert N. Rudeen
THE FAT MAN TOLD ABOUT KLUMPEY-DUMPEY ..... Herbert N. Rudeen
HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN ..... (Halftone) Uncredited
PICTURE BOOKS IN WINTER ..... Iris Weddell White
THE GODS WERE AMAZED ..... A. H. Winkler
HODER HURLED THE DART ..... Herbert N. Rudeen
STRANGE OPAL LIGHTS FILTERED THROUGH THE WATER ..... A. H. Winkler
THOR'S HAND GRIPPED HIM ..... W. O. Reese
SHUFFLE-SHOON AND AMBER-LOCKS ..... Lucille Enders
HOLLYHOCKS ..... Donn P. Crane
THE GOBLIN AND THE MIRROR ..... Herbert N. Rudeen
THE SNOW-FLAKE AT LAST BECAME A MAIDEN ..... Herbert N. Rudeen
THEY FLEW OVER WOODS AND LAKES ..... Herbert N Rudeen
"HE IS BLOWING BUBBLES" ..... Herbert N. Rudeen
THE CROW STOPPED TO LOOK AT HER ..... Herbert N. Rudeen
THE REINDEER RAN AS FAST AS IT COULD GO ..... Herbert N. Rudeen
THE SNOW QUEEN'S CASTLE ..... Herbert N. Rudeen
PEGASUS AT THE FOUNTAIN ..... Herbert N Rudeen
PEGASUS DARTED DOWN ASLANT ..... Herbert N. Rudeen
ST. NICHOLAS ..... Herbert N. Rudeen
IN VAIN PHAETHON PULLED AT THE REINS ..... Donn P. Crane
THERE WAS A LITTLE CHIMNEY SWEEP, AND HIS NAME WAS TOM ..... Donn P.
Crane
THEY CAME UP WITH A POOR IRISH WOMAN ..... Donn P. Crane
BEES AND HIVES ..... Donn P. Crane
HARTHOVER PLACE ..... Donn P. Crane
ALL RAN AFTER TOM ..... Donn P. Crane
TOM LOOKED DOWN THE CLIFF ..... Donn P. Crane
THE OLD DAME LOOKED AT TOM ..... Donn P. Crane
TOM LOOKED INTO THE CLEAR WATER ..... Donn P. Crane
SIR JOHN SEARCHING FOR TOM ..... Donn P. Crane
TOM WAS NOW A WATER BABY ..... Donn P. Crane
"OH, YOU BEAUTIFUL CREATURE!" SAID TOM ..... Donn P. Crane
TOM ESCAPED THE OTTER ..... Donn P. Crane
THE SALMON, KING OF ALL THE FISH ..... Donn P. Crane
TOM ON THE BUOY ..... Donn P. Crane
PORPOISES ..... Donn P. Crane
A LOBSTER ..... Donn P. Crane
ELLIE AND THE PROFESSOR ..... Donn P. Crane
MRS. BEDONEBYASYOUDID ..... Donn P. Crane
SHE TOOK TOM IN HER ARMS ..... Donn P. Crane
TOM FOUND THE CABINET ..... Donn P. Crane
THE LAST OF THE GAIRFOWL ..... Donn P. Crane
AND BEHOLD, IT WAS ELLIE ..... Donn P. Crane
HOLGER DANSKE ..... Arthur Henderson
THE FIGUREHEAD ..... Arthur Henderson
"MY DEAR GOOD HUSBAND" ..... Herbert N. Rudeen
THE FAIRIES OF CALDON-LOW ..... Iris Weddell White
WHO STOLE THE BIRD'S NEST? ..... Herbert N. Rudeen
"FATHER, WHO MAKES IT SNOW?" ..... Iris Weddell White
"HELLO! I'M WET, LET ME IN" ..... Donn P. Crane
"SORRY TO INCOMMODE YOU" ..... Donn P. Crane
"PRAY SIR, WERE YOU MY MUG?" ..... Donn P. Crane
"THOU HAST HAD THY SHARE OF LIFE" ..... Donn P. Crane
HE CAST THE FLASK INTO THE STREAM ..... Donn P. Crane
THE DWARF SHOOK THE DROPS INTO THE FLASK ..... Donn P. Crane
MORDECAI IN THE KING'S GATE ..... Arthur Henderson
HE PUT ON SACKCLOTH AND ASHES ..... Arthur Henderson
THEN HAMAN WAS AFRAID ..... Arthur Henderson
PLUTO SEIZED PROSERPINA ..... Arthur Henderson
IN TIME'S SWING ..... Herbert N. Rudeen
SO THE BARGAIN WAS MADE ..... Mildred Lyon
AESOP
Many centuries ago, more than six hundred years before Christ was born,
there lived in Greece a man by the name of Aesop. We do not know very
much about him, and no one can tell exactly what he wrote, or even that
he ever wrote anything.
We know he was a slave and much wiser than his masters, but whether he
was a fine, shapely man or a hunchback and a cripple we cannot be sure,
for different people have written very differently about him.
No matter what he was or how he lived, many, many stories are still told
about him, and the greater part of the fables we all like to read are
said to have been written or told by him, and everybody still calls them
Aesop's fables.
Some of the stories told about him are curious indeed. Here are a few of
them.
In those days men were sold as slaves in the market, as cattle are sold
now. One day Aesop and two other men were put up at auction. Xanthus, a
wealthy man, wanted a slave, and he said to the men: "What can you do?"
The two men bragged large about the things they could do, for both
wanted a rich master like Xanthus.
"But what can you do?" said Xanthus, turning to Aesop.
"The others can do so much and so well," said Aesop, "that there's
nothing left for me to do."
"Will you be honest and faithful if I buy you?"
"I shall be that whether you buy me or not."
"Will you promise not to run away?"
"Did you ever hear," answered Aesop, "of a bird in a cage that promised
to stay in it?"
Xanthus was so much pleased with the answers that he bought Aesop.
Some time afterward, Xanthus, wishing to give a dinner to some of his
friends, ordered Aesop to furnish the finest feast that money could buy.
The first course Aesop supplied was of tongues cooked in many ways, and
the second of tongues and the third and the fourth. Then Xanthus called
sharply to Aesop:
"Did I not tell you, sirrah, to provide the choicest dainties that money
could procure?"
"And what excels the tongue?" replied Aesop. "It is the great channel of
learning and philosophy. By this noble organ everything wise and good is
accomplished."
The company applauded Aesop's wit, and good humor was restored.
"Well," said Xanthus to the guests, "pray do me the favor of dining with
me again to-morrow. And if this is your best," continued he turning to
Aesop, "pray, to-morrow let us have some of the worst meat you can
find."
The next day, when dinner-time came, the guests were assembled. Great
was their astonishment and great the anger of Xanthus at finding that
again nothing but tongue was put upon the table.
"How, sir," said Xanthus, "should tongues be the best of meat one day,
and the worst another?"
"What," replied Aesop, "can be worse than the tongue? What wickedness is
there under the sun that it has not a part in? Treasons, violence,
injustice, and fraud are debated and resolved upon by the tongue. It is
the ruin of empires, of cities, and of private friendships."
* * * * *
At another time Xanthus very foolishly bet with a scholar that he could
drink the sea dry. Alarmed, he consulted Aesop.
"To perform your wager," said Aesop, "you know is impossible, but I will
show you how to evade it."
They accordingly met the scholar, and went with him and a great number
of people to the seashore, where Aesop had provided a table with several
large glasses upon it, and men who stood around with ladles with which
to fill the glasses.
Xanthus, instructed by Aesop, gravely took his seat at the table. The
beholders looked on with astonishment, thinking that he must surely have
lost his senses.
"My agreement," said he, turning to the scholar, "is to drink up the
sea. I said nothing of the rivers and streams that are everywhere
flowing into it. Stop up these, and I will proceed to fulfill my
engagement."
* * * * *
It is said that at one time when Xanthus started out on a long journey,
he ordered his servants to get all his things together and put them up
into bundles so that they could carry them.
When everything had been neatly tied up, Aesop went to his master and
begged for the lightest bundle. Wishing to please his favorite slave,
the master told Aesop to choose for himself the one he preferred to
carry. Looking them all over, he picked up the basket of bread and
started off with it on the journey. The other servants laughed at his
foolishness, for that basket was the heaviest of all.
When dinner-time came, Aesop was very tired, for he had had a difficult
time to carry his load for the last few hours. When they had rested,
however, they took bread from the basket, each taking an equal share.
Half the bread was eaten at this one meal, and when supper-time came the
rest of it disappeared.
For the whole remainder of the journey, which ran far into the night and
was over rough roads, up and down hills, Aesop had nothing to carry,
while the loads of the other servants grew heavier and heavier with
every step.
The people of the neighborhood in which Aesop was a slave one day
observed him attentively looking over some poultry in a pen that was
near the roadside; and those idlers, who spent more time in prying into
other people's affairs than in adjusting their own, asked why he
bestowed his attention on those animals.
"I am surprised," replied Aesop, "to see how mankind imitate this
foolish animal."
"In what?" asked the neighbors.
"Why, in crowing so well and scratching so poorly," rejoined Aesop.
[Illustration: "AESOP" Painting by Valasquez, Madrid ]
Fables, you know, are short stories, usually about animals and things,
which are made to talk like human beings. Fables are so bright and
interesting in themselves that both children and grown-ups like to read
them. Children see first the story, and bye and bye, after they have
thought more about it and have grown older, they see how much wisdom
there is in the fables.
For an example, there is the fable of the crab and its mother. They were
strolling along the sand together when the mother said, "Child, you are
not walking gracefully. You should walk straight forward, without
twisting from side to side."
"Pray, mother," said the young one, "if you will set the example, I will
follow it."
Perhaps children will think the little crab was not very respectful, but
the lesson is plain that it is always easier to give good advice than it
is to follow it.
There is another, which teaches us to be self-reliant and resourceful. A
crow, whose throat was parched and dry with thirst, saw a pitcher in the
distance. In great joy he flew to it, but found that it held only a
little water, and even that was too near the bottom to be reached, for
all his stooping and straining.
Next he tried to overturn the pitcher, thinking that he would at least
be able to catch some of the water as it trickled out. But this he was
not strong enough to do. In the end he found some pebbles lying near,
and by dropping them one by one into the pitcher, he managed at last to
raise the water up to the very brim, and thus was able to quench his
thirst.
THE FALCON AND THE PARTRIDGE
From The Arabian Nights
Once upon a time a Falcon stooped from its flight and seized a
Partridge; but the latter freed himself from the seizer, and entering
his nest, hid himself there. The Falcon followed apace and called out to
him, saying:
"O imbecile, I saw you hungry in the field and took pity on you; so I
picked up for you some grain and took hold of you that you might eat;
but you fled from me, and I know not the cause of your flight, except it
were to put upon me a slight. Come out, then, and take the grain I have
brought you to eat, and much good may it do you, and with your health
agree."
When the Partridge heard these words he believed, and came out to the
Falcon, who thereupon struck his talons into him and seized him.
Cried the Partridge, "Is this that which you told me you had brought me
from the field, and whereof you told me to eat, saying, 'Much good may
it do you, and with your health agree?' Thou hast lied to me, and may
God cause what you eat of my flesh to be a killing poison in your maw!"
When the Falcon had eaten the Partridge his feathers fell off, his
strength failed, and he died on the spot. Know that he who digs for his
brother a pit, himself soon falls into it.
MINERVA AND THE OWL
"My most solemn and wise bird," said Minerva one day to her Owl, "I have
hitherto admired you for your profound silence; but I have now a mind to
have you show your ability in discourse, for silence is only admirable
in one who can, when he pleases, triumph by his eloquence and charm with
graceful conversation."
The Owl replied by solemn grimaces, and made dumb signs. Minerva bade
him lay aside that affectation and begin; but he only shook his wise
head and remained silent. Thereupon Minerva commanded him to speak
immediately, on pain of her displeasure.
The Owl, seeing no remedy, drew up close to Minerva, and whispered very
softly in her ear this sage remark: "Since the world is grown so
depraved, they ought to be esteemed most wise who have eyes to see and
wit to hold their tongues."
THE SPARROW AND THE EAGLE
From The Arabian Nights
Once a Sparrow, flitting over a flock of sheep, saw a great Eagle swoop
down upon a newly weaned lamb and carry it up in his claws and fly away.
Thereupon the Sparrow clapped his wings and said, "I will do even as
this Eagle did."
So he waxed proud in his own conceit, and, mimicking one greater than
he, flew down forthright and lighted on the back of a fat ram with a
thick fleece, that was matted by his lying till it was like woolen felt.
As soon as the Sparrow pounced upon the sheep's back he flopped his
wings to fly away, but his feet became tangled in the wool, and, however
hard he tried, he could not set himself free.
While all this was passing, the shepherd was looking on, having seen
what happened first with the Eagle and afterward with the Sparrow. So in
a great rage he came up to the wee birdie and seized him. He plucked out
his wing feathers and carried him to his children.
"What is this?" asked one of them.
"This," he answered, "is he that aped a greater than himself and came to
grief."
The Old Man and Death
A poor and toil-worn peasant, bent with years and groaning beneath the
weight of a heavy fagot of firewood which he carried, sought, weary and
sore-footed, to gain his distant cottage. Unable to bear the weight of
his burden longer, he let it fall by the roadside, and lamented his hard
fate.
"What pleasure have I known since I first drew breath in this sad world?
From dawn to dusk it has been hard work and little pay! At home is an
empty cupboard, a discontented wife, and lazy and disobedient children!
O Death! O Death! come and free me from my troubles!"
At once the ghostly King of Terrors stood before him and asked, "What do
you want with me?"
"Noth-nothing," stammered the frightened peasant, "except for you to
help me put again upon my shoulders the bundle of fagots I have let
fall!"
INFANT JOY
By William Blake
"I have no name;
I am but two days old."
"What shall I call thee?"
"I happy am;
Joy is my name."
Sweet joy befall thee!
Pretty Joy!
Sweet Joy, but two days old.
Sweet Joy I call thee:
Thou dost smile:
I sing the while,
"Sweet joy befall thee!"
THE BABY
By George Macdonald
Where did you come from, baby dear?
Out of the everywhere into the here.
Where did you get your eyes so blue?
Out of the sky as I came through.
What makes the light in them sparkle and spin?
Some of the starry spikes left in.
Where did you get that little tear?
I found it waiting when I got here.
What makes your forehead so smooth and high?
A soft hand stroked it as I went by.
What makes your cheek like a warm white rose?
Something better than any one knows.
Whence that three-cornered smile of bliss?
Three angels gave me at once a kiss.
Where did you get that pearly ear?
God spoke, and it came out to hear.
Where did you get those arms and hands?
Love made itself into hooks and bands.
Feet, whence did you come, you darling things?
From the same box as the cherub's wings.
How did they all just come to be you?
God thought about me, and so I grew.
But how did you come to us, you dear?
God thought of YOU, and so I am here.
THE DISCONTENTED STONECUTTER
Adapted from the Japanese
Once upon a time there was a man who worked from early morning till late
at night cutting building stones out of the solid rock. His pay was
small and hardly enough to keep his wife and children from starving. So
the poor stonecutter grew discontented and sighed and moaned bitterly
over his hard lot.
One day when his work seemed harder than usual and his troubles more
than he could bear he cried out in despair:
"Oh, I wish I could be rich and lie at ease on a soft couch with a
curtain of red silk!"
Just then a beautiful fairy floated down from heaven, and softly said,
"Thy wish is granted thee." So the poor stonecutter found himself rich
and powerful and resting easily on his silken couch with its red
curtain. As he gazed out, however, he saw the king of the country ride
by with many horsemen before and behind him, and with a great golden
sunshade held over his head. It irritated the rich man to have no
parasol over his head and to see another more powerful than himself, and
in his discontentment he exclaimed, "Would that I were a king such as
that one."
Once again his good fairy appeared, waved his wand, and said, "It shall
be as thou desirest." Immediately the man was king, and before him and
behind him rode his men-at-arms, and over his head was a golden
sunshade. But elsewhere the sun shone fiercely down and dried up the
vegetation with its terrible heat. It was reflected into the
face of the king so that even the golden sunshade did not keep him from
suffering. Once more he sighed discontentedly, "If I could only be the
sun!"
[Illustration: THE STONECUTTER AND HIS SILKEN COUCH]
Almost before he spoke he found himself to be the sun, and he began
joyously to send his fiery rays above, below and everywhere roundabout
him. He scorched the grass of the earth, and burned the faces of its
rulers and felt his power unlimited until a little cloud placed itself
between him and the earth and threw back his scorching rays. It still
angered him to find something more powerful than himself, and he wished
aloud that he might be the cloud.
[Illustration: EVERYTHING REJOICED IN A NEW GROWTH]
Again his wish was granted, and he found himself floating where he
wished through the sky. He ran between the sun and the earth and
sheltered the latter so that the grass grew green, the trees leaved out
again, and everything rejoiced in a new growth. Then he sent great
floods of rain upon the earth, filled the rivers till they overflowed,
swept homes and herds into the sea, and destroyed the works of man in
every direction. But try as he would he could not move one great rock
that stood right across his way. Though he sent waters that roared
around its base and pushed hard against it, yet it remained immovable.
Such a failure angered the man-cloud, and again he cried out, "Would
that I were a rock, so strong and immovable is it."
This time, also, his guardian angel interfered, and he found himself a
rock that withstood the sun, the wind and the waters. But then, one day,
there came along a rude stonecutter, who with chisel and heavy hammer
began to cut the great rock into small, regular building stones. "What
does this mean?" cried the rock. "Has this man power to cut me in
pieces? Surely I am weaker than he! Would I were a stonecutter!"
"As thou wishest, so shall it be," said his guardian angel, and
immediately he was again a stonecutter, working hard as before and for
small wages, but happy and contented with his lot.
DISCREET HANS
By Wilhelm and Jakob Grimm
Hans's mother asked, "Whither are you going, Hans?"
"To Grethel's," replied he.
"Behave well, Hans."
"I will take care; good-bye, mother."
"Good-bye, Hans."
Hans came to Grethel. "Good day," said he.
"Good day," replied Grethel. "What treasure do you bring today?"
"I bring nothing. Have you anything to give?"
Grethel presented Hans with a needle.
"Good-bye," said he.
"Good-bye, Hans."
Hans took the needle, stuck it in a load of hay, and walked home behind
the wagon.
"Good evening, mother."
"Good evening, Hans. Where have you been?"
"To Grethel's."
"And what have you given her?"
"Nothing; she has given me something."
"What has Grethel given you?"
"A needle," said Hans.
"And where have you put it?"
"In the load of hay."
"Then you have behaved stupidly, Hans; you should put needles on your
coat sleeve."
"To behave better, do nothing at all," thought Hans.
"Whither are you going, Hans?"
"To Grethel's, mother."
"Behave well, Hans."
"I will take care; good-bye mother."
"Good-bye, Hans."
Hans came to Grethel. "Good day," said he.
"Good day, Hans. What treasure do you bring?"
"I bring nothing. Have you anything to give?"
Grethel gave Hans a knife.
"Good-bye, Grethel."
"Good-bye, Hans."
Hans took the knife, put it in his sleeve and went home.
"Good evening, mother."
"Good evening, Hans. Where have you been?"
"To Grethel's."
"And what did you take to her?"
"I took nothing; she has given something to me."
"And what did she give you?"
"A knife," said Hans.
"And where have you put it?"
"In my sleeve."
"Then you have behaved foolishly again, Hans; you should put knives in
your pocket."
"To behave better, do nothing at all," thought Hans.
"Whither are you going, Hans?"
"To Grethel's, mother."
"Behave well, Hans."
"I will take care; good-bye, mother."
"Good-bye, Hans."
Hans came to Grethel. "Good day, Grethel."
"Good day, Hans. What treasure do you bring?"
"I bring nothing; have you anything to give?"
Grethel gave Hans a young goat.
"Good-bye, Grethel."
"Good-bye, Hans."
Hans took the goat, tied its legs and put it in his pocket. Just as he
reached home it was suffocated.
"Good evening, mother."
"Good evening, Hans. Where have you been?"
"To Grethel's."
"And what did you take to her?"
"I took nothing; she gave to me."
"And what did Grethel give you?"
"A goat."
"Where did you put it, Hans?"
"In my pocket."
"There you acted stupidly, Hans; you should have tied the goat with a
rope."
"To behave better, do nothing," thought Hans.
"Whither away, Hans?"
"To Grethel's, mother."
"Behave well, Hans."
"I will take care; good-bye, mother."
"Good-bye, Hans."
Hans came to Grethel. "Good day," said he.
"Good day, Hans. What treasure do you bring?"
"I have nothing. Have you anything to give?"
Grethel gave Hans a piece of bacon.
"Good-bye, Grethel."
"Good-bye, Hans."
Hans took the bacon, tied it with a rope, and swung it to and fro, so
that the dogs came and ate it up. When he reached home he held the rope
in his hand, but there was nothing on it.
"Good evening, mother," said he.
"Good evening, Hans. Where have you been?"
"To Grethel's, mother."
"What did you take her?"
"I took nothing; she gave to me."
"And what did Grethel give you?"
"A piece of bacon," said Hans.
"And where have you put it?"
"I tied it with a rope, swung it about, and the dogs came and ate it
up."
"There you acted stupidly, Hans; you should have carried the bacon on
your head."
"To behave better, do nothing," thought Hans.
"Whither away, Hans?"
"To Grethel's, mother."
"Behave well, Hans."
"I'll take care; good-bye, mother."
"Good-bye, Hans."
Hans came to Grethel. "Good day," said he.
"Good day, Hans. What treasure do you bring?"
"I bring nothing. Have you anything to give?"
Grethel gave Hans a calf. "Good-bye," said Hans. "Good-bye," said
Grethel.
Hans took the calf, set it on his head, and the calf scratched his face.
"Good evening, mother."
"Good evening, Hans. Where have you been?"
"To Grethel's."
"What did you take to her?"
"I took nothing; she gave to me."
"And what did Grethel give you?"
"A calf," said Hans.
"And what did you do with it?"
"I set it on my head and it kicked my face."
"Then you acted stupidly, Hans; you should have led the calf home and
put it in the stall."
"To behave better, do nothing," thought Hans.
"Whither away, Hans?"
"To Grethel's, mother."
"Behave well, Hans."
"I'll take care; good-bye, mother."
"Good-bye, Hans."
Hans came to Grethel. "Good day," said he.
"Good day, Hans. What treasure do you bring?"
"I bring nothing. Have you anything to give?"
Grethel said, "I will go with you, Hans."
Hans tied a rope round Grethel, led her home, put her in the stall and
made the rope fast; then he went to his mother.
"Good evening, mother."
"Good evening, Hans. Where have you been?"
"To Grethel's."
"What did you take her?"
"I took nothing."
"What did Grethel give you?"
"She gave nothing; she came with me."
"And where have you left her, then?"
"I tied her with a rope, put her in the stall, and threw her some
grass."
"Then you have acted stupidly, Hans; you should have looked at her with
friendly eyes."
"To behave better, do nothing," thought Hans; and then he went into the
stall, and made sheep's eyes at Grethel.
And after that Grethel became Hans's wife.
The Brothers Grimm, Jakob and Wilhelm, were very learned German scholars
who lived during the first half of the nineteenth century. They were
both professors at the University of Gottingen, and published many
important works, among them a famous dictionary. In their own country it
is, of course, these learned works which have given them much of their
fame, but in other countries they are chiefly known for their Fairy
Tales.
Most of these they did not themselves write; they simply collected and
rewrote. They would hear of some old woman who was famous for telling
stories remembered from childhood, and they would present themselves at
her cottage to bribe or wheedle her into telling them her tales. Perhaps
the promise that her words should appear in print would be enough to
induce her to talk; perhaps hours would be wasted in trying to make her
grow talkative, without success. At any rate, the Grimm brothers finally
collected enough of these stories to make a big, fat book.
THE POPPYLAND EXPRESS
St. Louis Star Sayings
The first train leaves at 6 p. m.
For the land where the poppy blows.
The mother is the engineer,
And the passenger laughs and crows.
The palace car is the mother's arms;
The whistle a low, sweet strain.
The passenger winks and nods and blinks
And goes to sleep on the train.
At 8 p. m. the next train starts
For the poppyland afar.
The summons clear falls on the ear,
"All aboard for the sleeping car!"
But "What is the fare to poppyland?
I hope it is not too dear."
The fare is this--a hug and a kiss,
And it's paid to the engineer.
So I ask of Him who children took
On His knee in kindness great:
"Take charge, I pray, of the trains each day
That leave at six and eight.
"Keep watch of the passengers," thus I pray,
"For to me they are very dear;
And special ward, O gracious Lord,
O'er the gentle engineer."
BLUEBEARD
Once upon a time there lived a great lord who had many beautiful homes
and who was fairly rolling in wealth. He had town houses and castles in
the country, all filled with rich furniture and costly vessels of gold
and silver. In spite of all his riches, however, nobody liked the man,
because of his ugly and frightful appearance. Perhaps people could have
endured his face if it had not been for a great blue beard that
frightened the women and children until they fled at his very approach.
Now, it so happened that there was living near one of his castles a fine
lady of good breeding who had two beautiful daughters. Bluebeard, for
such was the name by which he was known through all the country, saw the
two daughters and determined to have one of them for his wife. So he
proposed to the mother for one, but left it to her to decide which of
the daughters she would give him.
Neither of the daughters was willing to marry him, for neither could
make up her mind to live all her life with such a hideous blue beard,
however rich the owner might be. Moreover, they had heard, and the
report was true, that the man had been married several times before, and
no one knew what had become of his wives.
In order to become better acquainted with the women, Bluebeard invited
them and their mother to visit him at one of his castles in the country.
They accepted the invitation, and for nine delightful days they hunted
and fished over his vast estates, and for nine wonderful evenings they
feasted and danced in his magnificent rooms.
Everything went so much to their liking, and Bluebeard himself was so
gracious, that the younger girl began to think that after all his beard
was not so very blue; and so, soon after their return to town, the
mother announced that the younger daughter was ready to marry him. In a
few days the ceremony was performed, and Bluebeard took his wife to one
of his castles, where they spent a happy month.
At the end of that time Bluebeard told his wife that he was obliged to
make a long journey and would be away from home about six weeks. He
added that he hoped his wife would enjoy herself, and that he wished her
to send for her friends if she wanted them, and to spend his money as
freely as she liked in their entertainment.
"Here," he said, "are the keys of my two great storerooms, where you
will find everything you need for the house; here are the keys of the
sideboards, where you will find all the gold and silver plate for the
table; here are the keys of my money chests, where you will find gold
and silver in abundance [Illustration: a key] and many caskets
containing beautiful jewels which you have not yet seen; and here is a
pass key which will open all the rooms in the castle excepting one.
"But here is a little key which fits the lock in the door of the little
room at the end of the long gallery on the first floor. This little room
you must not enter. Open everything else, go everywhere you like, treat
everything as though it was your own; but I strictly forbid you to enter
the little room. If you even so much as put the key in the lock you may
expect to suffer direfully from my anger."
The young wife promised faithfully to observe her husband's wishes to
the letter, and he, pleased with the readiness with which she consented
to obey him, kissed her fondly, sprang into his carriage and departed on
his journey.
[Illustration: SHE SLIPPED SILENTLY AWAY]
No sooner had Bluebeard left than the friends of his wife began to
arrive. Many of them did not wait for an invitation, but came as soon as
they heard that her husband had gone with his terrible blue beard. Then
was there great merrymaking all over the house, and it was overrun from
top to bottom with the excited guests, for all were consumed with the
desire to see the treasures the castle contained. These were truly
wonderful. Rich tapestries hanging on the walls, great mirrors that
reflected the whole image of a person from head to foot, wonderful
pictures in frames of pure gold, gold and silver vessels of graceful
shape and elegant design, cabinets filled with curiosities, lights
gleaming with crystals, caskets filled with sparkling diamonds and other
precious stones without number, all served to charm and delight the
guests so that they had little time to think about their hostess.
The wife, however, soon wearied of the splendor of her home, for she
kept continually thinking about the little room at the end of the long
gallery on the first floor. The more she thought about it the more
curious she became, and finally, forgetting her good manners, she left
her guests, slipped silently away from them, and in her excitement
nearly fell the whole length of the secret stairway that led to the long
gallery. Her courage did not fail her till she reached the door of the
little room. Then she remembered how false she was to her trust, and
hesitated. Her conscience, however, was soon silenced by her curiosity,
and with a beating heart and trembling hand she pushed the little key
into the lock, and the door flew open.
The shutters of the window in the little room were closed, and at first
she could see nothing; but as her eyes became accustomed to the dim
light she saw that clotted blood covered the floor, and that hanging
from the walls by their long hair were the bloody heads of Bluebeard's
other wives, while on the floor lay their dead bodies.
When the young wife realized at what she was looking, the key fell from
her shaking hand, her heart stopped beating, and she almost fell to the
floor in horror and amazement. Recovering herself after a while, she
stooped and picked up the key, locked the door and hurried back to her
chamber. In vain she tried to compose herself and meet her guests again.
She was too frightened to control herself, and when she looked at the
little key of that awful little room at the end of the long gallery on
the first floor, she saw that it was stained with blood. She wiped the
key and wiped it, but the blood would not come off. She washed it, and
scrubbed it with sand and freestone and brick dust, but the blood would
not come off; or, if she did succeed in cleaning one side and turned the
key over, there was blood on the other side, for it was a magic key
which a fairy friend of Bluebeard's had given him.
That night the wife was terrified to hear Bluebeard returning, though
she tried to welcome him with every show of delight and affection. He
explained his sudden change of plans by saying that he had met a friend
on the road who told him that it was unnecessary for him to make the
long journey, as the business he was intending to transact had been all
done.
It was a very unhappy night she passed, but Bluebeard said nothing to
disturb her until morning, and then he presently asked her for his keys.
She gave them to him, but her hand trembled like an old woman's.
Bluebeard took the keys and looked them over carelessly.
"I see the key of the little room at the end of the long gallery on the
first floor is not with the others. Where is it?"
"It must have fallen off in the drawer where I kept the keys," she said.
"Please get it for me at once," said Bluebeard, "as I wish to go to the
room."
The wife, as white as a sheet, and almost too faint to walk, went back
to her chamber and returned, saying she could not find the key.
"But I must have it," said Bluebeard; "go again and look more carefully
for it. Certainly you cannot have lost it."
So back to the chamber went the terrified woman, and, seeing no hope of
escape, she carried the key down to her waiting husband.
Bluebeard took the key, and looking at it closely, said to his wife,
"Why is this blood spot on the key?"
"I do not know," said the wife, faintly.
"You do not know!" said Bluebeard. "Well, I know. You wanted to go to
the little room. Very well; I shall see that you get there and take your
place with the other ladies."
In despair the young woman flung herself at his feet and begged for
mercy, repenting bitterly of her curiosity. Bluebeard turned a deaf ear
to all her entreaties and was not moved in the least by her piteous
beauty.
"Hear me, madam. You must die at, once," he said.
"But give me a little time to make my peace with God," she said. "I must
have time to say my prayers."
"I will give you a quarter of an hour," answered Bluebeard, "but not a
minute more."
He turned away, and she sent for her sister, who came quickly at her
summons.
"Sister Ann," she said excitedly, "go up to the top of the tower and see
if my brothers are coming. They promised to come and see me to-day. If
they are on the road make signs to them to hurry as fast as they can. I
am in awful despair."
[Illustration: SISTER ANN WATCHING FROM THE TOWER]
Without waiting for an explanation the sister went to the top of the
tower and began her watch.
She was scarcely seated when her sister called up, "Sister Annie, do you
see any one coming?"
Annie answered, "I see nothing but the sun on the golden dust and the
grass which grows green."
In the meantime, Bluebeard, who had armed himself with a sharp, curved
scimitar, stood at the foot of the stairs waiting for his wife to come
down.
"Annie, sister Annie, do you see any one coming down the road?" cried
the wife again.
"No, I see nothing but the golden dust."
Then Bluebeard called out, "Come down quickly now, or I will come up to
you."
"One minute more," replied his wife; and then she called softly, "Annie,
sister Annie, do you see any one coming?"
"I think I see a cloud of dust a little to the left."
"Do you think it is my brothers?" said the wife.
"Alas, no, dear sister, it is only a shepherd boy with his sheep."
"Will you come down now, madam, or shall I fetch you?" Bluebeard bawled
out.
"I am coming,--indeed I will come in just a minute."
Then she called out for the last time, "Annie, sister Annie, do you see
any one coming?"
"I see," replied her sister, "two horsemen coming, but they are still a
great way off."
"Thank God," cried the wife, "it is my brothers. Urge them to make
haste." Annie replied, "I am beckoning to them. They have seen my
signals. They are galloping towards us."
Now Bluebeard called out so loudly for his wife to come down that his
voice shook the whole house. His lady, not daring to keep him waiting
any longer, hurried down the stairs, her hair streaming about her
shoulders and her face bathed in tears. She threw herself on the floor
at his feet and begged for mercy.
"There is no use in your pleading," said Bluebeard; "you must certainly
die."
Then, seizing her by the hair with his left hand, he raised his
scimitar, preparing to strike off her head. The poor woman turned her
eyes upon him and begged for a single moment to collect her thoughts.
"No," he said; "not a moment more. Commend yourself to God."
He raised his arm to strike. Just at that moment there was a loud
knocking at the gate, and Bluebeard stopped short in his bloody work.
Two officers in uniform sprang into the castle and ran upon Bluebeard
with drawn swords. The cruel man, seeing they were his wife's brothers,
tried to escape, but they followed and overtook him before he had gone
twenty steps. Though he begged for mercy they listened not to a single
word, but thrust him through and through with their swords.
The poor wife, who was almost as dead as her lord, could hardly rise to
greet her brothers, but when she learned of Bluebeard's death she
quickly recovered and embraced them heartily.
Bluebeard, it was found, had no heirs, and so all his riches came into
the possession of his wife. She was filled with thankfulness at her
rescue, and in repentance for her curiosity she gave her sister a
generous portion of her money, and established her brothers in high
positions in the army.
As for herself, she afterwards married a worthy gentleman and lived
happily to a hale old age. The beautiful town and country houses were
constantly filled with guests, who, after they had convinced themselves
that the cruel master was actually dead, made the rooms ring with their
joyous laughter and talking.
LULLABY
Come hither, little restless one,
'Tis time to shut your eyes;
The sun behind the hills has gone,
The stars are in the skies.
See, one by one they show their light--
How clear and bright they look!
Just like the fireflies in the night,
That shine beside the brook.
You do not hear the robins sing--
They're snug within their nest;
And sheltered by their mother's wing,
The little chickens rest.
The dog, he will not frolic now,
But to his kennel creeps;
The turkeys climb upon the bough,
And e'en the kitten sleeps.
The very violets in their bed
Fold up their eyelids blue,
And you, my flower, must droop your head
And close your eyelids, too.
Then join your little hands and pray
To God, who made the light,
To keep you holy all the day
And guard you through the night.
RUMPELSTILTZKIN
By Jakob and Wilhelm Grimm
There was once upon a time a poor miller who had a beautiful daughter.
It happened one day that he had an audience with the King, and in order
to appear important he told the King that he had a daughter who could
spin straw into gold.
"Now that's a talent worth having," said the King to the miller; "if
your daughter is as clever as you say, bring her to my palace tomorrow,
and I'll test her."
When the girl was brought to him, he led her into a room full of straw,
gave her a spinning-wheel and spindle, and said, "Now set to work and
spin all night, and if by early dawn you haven't spun the straw into
gold you shall die." Then he closed the door behind him and left her
alone inside.
So the poor miller's daughter sat down. She hadn't the least idea of how
to spin straw into gold, and at last she began to cry. Suddenly the door
opened, and in stepped a tiny little man who said: "Good evening, Miss
Miller-maid; why are you crying so bitterly?"
"Oh!" answered the girl, "I have to spin straw into gold, and haven't
the slightest notion how it's done." "What will you give me if I spin it
for you?" asked the manikin.
"My necklace," replied the girl.
The little man took the necklace, sat down at the wheel, and whir, whir,
whir, round it went until morning, when all the straw was spun away, and
all the bobbins were full of gold.
[Illustration: Rumpelstiltzken spinning.]
As soon as the sun rose, the King came, and when he saw the gold he was
astonished and delighted, but he wanted more of the precious metal. He
had the miller's daughter put into another room, much bigger than the
first and full of straw, and bade her, if she valued her life, spin it
all into gold before morning.
When the girl began to cry the tiny little man appeared again and said:
"What'll you give me if I spin the straw into gold for you?"
"The ring from my finger," answered the girl. The manikin took the ring,
and when morning broke he had spun all the straw into glittering gold.
The King was pleased beyond measure at the sight, but he was still not
satisfied, and he had the miller's daughter brought into a yet bigger
room full of straw, and said:
"You must spin all this away in the night; but if you succeed this time
you shall become my wife."
When the girl was alone, the little man appeared for the third time, and
said: "What'll you give me if I spin the straw for you this third time?"
"I've nothing more to give," answered the girl.
"Then promise me when you are Queen to give me your first child."
Seeing no other way out of it, she promised the manikin, and he set to
work.
When the King came in the morning, and found the gold, he straightway
made her his wife. When a beautiful son was born to her, she did not
think of the little man, till all of a sudden one day he stepped into
her room and said: "Now give me what you promised."
The Queen offered the little man all the riches in her kingdom if he
would only leave her the child.
But the manikin said, "No, a living creature is dearer to me than all
the treasures in the world."
Then the Queen began to cry and sob so bitterly that the little man was
sorry for her, and said, "I'll give you three days, and if in that time
you guess my name, you may keep your child."
The Queen pondered the whole night over all the names she had ever
heard, and sent messengers to scour the land, and to pick up far and
near any names they should come across. When the little man arrived she
began with Kasper, Melchior, Belshazzer, Sheepshanks, Cruickshanks,
Spindleshanks, and so on through the long list. At every name the little
man shook his head.
At last a messenger reported, "As I came upon a high hill round the
corner of the wood, where the foxes and hares bid each other good-night,
I saw a little house, and in front of the house burned a fire, and round
the fire sprang the most grotesque little man, hopping on one leg and
crying,
'Tomorrow I brew, today I bake,
And then the child away I'll take;
For little deems my royal dame
That Rumpelstiltzken is my name!'"
When the little man stepped in afterward and asked his name she said,
"Is your name Conrad?"
"No."
"Is your name, perhaps, Rumpelstiltzken?"
"Some demon has told you that, some demon has told you that," screamed
the little man, as he vanished into the air.
THE MIRROR OF MATSUYANA
The following pretty little story comes from Japan, where it may be
found in a collection of tales for children. A long time ago a young
couple lived in the country with their only child, a beautiful little
girl whom they loved tenderly. The names of the parents cannot be told
now, for they have long been forgotten, but we know that the place where
they lived was Matsuyana, in the province of Echigo.
[Illustration: AWAITING THE RETURN OF THE FATHER]
Now it happened when the child was still very little that her father was
obliged to go to the capital of the kingdom. As it was so long a
journey, neither his wife nor his child could go with him and he
departed alone, promising to bring them many pretty gifts on his return.
The mother had never been away from the neighborhood and was not able to
get rid of some fear when she thought of the long journey her husband
must take. At the same time, however, she could not but feel pride and
satisfaction that it was her husband who was the first man in all that
region to go to the rich city where the king and the nobles lived, and
where there were so many beautiful and marvelous things to be seen.
At last, when the good wife knew that her husband would return, she
dressed her child gaily in the best clothes she had and herself in the
blue dress that she knew he liked very much.
It is not possible to describe the joy of the good woman when she saw
her husband return safe and sound. The little one clapped her hands and
laughed with delight when she saw the toys her father had brought, and
he never tired of telling of the wonderful things he had seen on his
journey and at the capital.
"To you," he said to his wife, "I have brought a thing of wonderful
power, that is called a mirror. Look and tell me what you see inside."
He handed her a little flat box of white wood, and when she opened it
she saw a metal disk. One side was white as frosted silver and
ornamented with birds and flowers raised from the surface; the other
side was shining and polished like a window-pane. Into this the young
wife gazed with pleasure and astonishment, for from the depths she saw
looking out at her a smiling face with parted lips and animated eyes.
"What do you see?" repeated the husband, charmed by her amazement and
proud to prove that he had remembered her in his absence.
"I see a pretty young woman, who looks at me and moves her lips as if
talking, and who wears--what a wonderful thing! a blue dress exactly
like mine."
"Silly one! What you see is your own sweet face," replied the man,
delighted to know that his wife did not recognize herself. "This circle
of metal is called a looking-glass. In the city, every woman has one,
although here in the country no one has seen one until to-day."
Enchanted with her gift, the woman passed several days in wonderment,
because, as I have said, this was the first time she had seen a mirror,
and consequently the first time she had seen the image of her own pretty
face. This wonderful jewel she thought too precious to be used every
day, and the little box she guarded carefully, concealing it among her
most precious treasures.
Years passed, the good man and his wife living happily through them all.
The delight of his life was the child, who was growing into the living
image of her dear mother, and who was so good and affectionate that
everybody loved her.
The mother, remembering her own passing vanity over her beauty, kept the
mirror hidden, to protect her daughter from any chance of vanity. As for
the father, no one had spoken of the glass, and he had forgotten all
about it. Thus the child grew up frank and guileless as her mother
wished, knowing nothing of her own beauty or what the mirror might
reflect.
But there came a day of terrible misfortune to this family, till then so
happy. The devoted and loving mother fell sick, and although her
daughter watched her with affectionate and tender devotion, the dear
woman grew worse and worse each day.
When she knew that she must soon pass away, she was very sad, grieving
for husband and daughter that she must leave behind on earth; and
especially was she anxious for the future of her loving daughter.
Calling the girl to the bedside, she said:
[Illustration: HER GREATEST PLEASURE WAS TO LOOK INTO THE MIRROR]
"My beloved child, you see that I am so very sick that soon I must die
and leave you and your father alone. Promise me that when I am gone,
every morning when you get up and every night when you go to bed, you
will look into the mirror which your father gave me long ago. In it, you
will see me smiling back at you, and you will know that I am ever near
to protect you."
Having spoken these words, she pointed to the place where the mirror was
hidden, and the girl, with tears on her cheeks, promised to do as her
mother wished. Tranquil and resigned, the mother then passed quickly
away.
The dutiful daughter, never forgetting her mother's wishes, each morning
and evening took the glass from the place where it was hidden and gazed
at it intently for a long time. There she saw the face of her dead
mother brilliant and smiling, not pallid and ill as it was in her last
days, but young and beautiful. To this vision each night she confided
the troubles and little faults of the day, looking to it for help and
encouragement in doing her duty. In this manner the girl grew up as if
watched over and helped by a living presence, trying always to do
nothing that could grieve or annoy her sainted mother. Her greatest
pleasure was to look into the mirror and feel that she could truthfully
say: "Mother, to-day I have been as you wished that I should be."
After a time the father observed that his daughter looked lovingly into
the mirror every morning and every evening, and appeared to converse
with it. Wondering, he asked her the cause of her strange behavior. The
girl replied:
"Father, I look every day into the glass to see my dear mother and to
speak with her."
She then related to him the last wishes of her dying mother, and assured
him that she had never failed to comply with them.
Wondering at such simplicity and loving obedience, the father shed tears
of pity and affection. Nor did he ever find the heart to explain to the
loving daughter that the image she saw in the mirror was but the
reflection of her own beautiful face. Thus, by the pure white bond of
her filial love, each day the charming girl grew more and more like her
dead mother.
A CONTRAST
[Illustration: YEARNING LOVE]
Light blue eyes:
Flaxen hair;
Rosy cheeks--
Dimples there!
These are Baby's.
Pudgy fists;
Ruddy toes;
Kissy lips--
Mother knows!
These are Baby's.
Cooing voice;
Winning smiles;
Pleading arms--
Wanton wiles!
These are Baby's.
Yearning love;
Growing fears;
Grief and worry--
All the years.
These are Mother's.
THE GOLDEN TOUCH
By Nathaniel Hawthorne
Once upon a time there lived a very rich man, and a king besides, whose
name was Midas; and he had a little daughter whom nobody but myself ever
heard of, and whose name I either never knew or have entirely forgotten.
So, because I love odd names for little girls, I choose to call her
Marygold.
This King Midas was fonder of gold than of anything else in the world.
He valued his royal crown chiefly because it was composed of that
precious metal. If he loved anything better or half so well, it was the
one little maiden who played so merrily around her father's footstool.
But the more Midas loved his daughter, the more did he desire and seek
for wealth. He thought, foolish man! that the best thing he could
possibly do for this dear child would be to bequeath her the immensest
pile of yellow, glistening coin that had ever been heaped together since
the world was made. Thus he gave all his thoughts and all his time to
this one purpose. If he ever happened to gaze for an instant at the
gold-tinted clouds of sunset, he wished that they were real gold and
that they could be squeezed safely into his strong box.
When little Marygold ran to meet him with a bunch of buttercups and
dandelions, he used to say, "Pooh, pooh, child! If these flowers were as
golden as they look, they would be worth the plucking!"
And yet in his earlier days, before he was so entirely possessed with
this insane desire for riches, King Midas had shown a great taste for
flowers. He had planted a garden in which grew the biggest and
beautifulest and sweetest roses that any mortal ever saw or smelled.
These roses were still growing in the garden, as large, as lovely, and
as fragrant as when Midas used to pass whole hours in gazing at them and
inhaling their perfume. But now, if he looked at them at all, it was
only to calculate how much the garden would be worth if each of the
innumerable rose-petals were a thin plate of gold. And though he once
was fond of music (in spite of an idle story about his ears, which were
said to resemble those of an ass), the only music for poor Midas now was
the chink of one coin against another.
At length (as people always grow more and more foolish unless they take
care to grow wiser and wiser) Midas had got to be so exceedingly
unreasonable that he could scarcely bear to see or touch any object that
was not gold. He made it his custom, therefore, to pass a large portion
of every day in a dark and dreary apartment underground, at the basement
of his palace. It was here that he kept his wealth. To this dismal hole-
-for it was little better than a dungeon--Midas betook himself whenever
he wanted to be particularly happy. Here, after carefully locking the
door, he would take a bag of gold coin, or a gold cup as big as a
washbowl, or a heavy golden bar, or a peck measure of gold dust, and
bring it from the obscure corners of the room into the one bright and
narrow sunbeam that fell from the dungeon-like window. He valued the
sunbeam for no other reason but that his treasure would not shine
without its help. And then would he reckon over the coins in the bag,
toss up the bar and catch it as it came down, sift the gold dust through
his fingers, look at the funny image of his own face as reflected in the
burnished circumference of the cup, and whisper to himself, "O Midas,
rich King Midas, what a happy man art thou!" But it was laughable to see
how the image of his face kept grinning at him out of the polished
surface of the cup. It seemed to be aware of his foolish behavior, and
to have a naughty inclination to make fun of him.
Midas called himself a happy man, but felt that he was not yet quite so
happy as he might be. The very tip-top of enjoyment would never be
reached unless the whole world were to become his treasure-room and be
filled with yellow metal which should be all his own.
Now, I need hardly remind such wise little people as you are that in the
old, old times, when King Midas was alive, a great many things came to
pass which we should consider wonderful if they were to happen in our
own day and country. And, on the other hand, a great many things take
place nowadays which seem not only wonderful to us, but at which the
people of old times would have stared their eyes out. On the whole, I
regard our own times as the stranger of the two; but, however that may
be, I must go on with my story.
[Illustration: THE FIGURE OF A STRANGER IN THE SUNBEAM]
Midas was enjoying himself in his treasure-room one day as usual, when
he perceived a shadow fall over the heaps of gold, and, looking suddenly
up, what should he behold but the figure of a stranger standing in the
bright and narrow sunbeam! It was a young man with a cheerful and ruddy
face. Whether it was the imagination of King Midas threw a yellow tinge
over everything, or whatever the cause might be, he could not help
fancying that the smile with which the stranger regarded him had a kind
of golden radiance in it. Certainly, although his figure intercepted the
sunshine, there was now a brighter gleam upon all the piled-up treasures
than before. Even the remotest corners had their share of it, and were
lighted up, when the stranger smiled, as with tips of flame and sparkles
of fire.
As Midas knew that he had carefully turned the key in the lock, and that
no mortal strength could possibly break into his treasure-room, he of
course concluded that his visitor must be something more than mortal. It
is no matter about telling you who he was. In those days, when the earth
was comparatively a new affair, it was supposed to be often the resort
of beings endowed with supernatural powers, who used to interest
themselves in the joys and sorrows of men, women, and children half
playfully and half seriously. Midas had met such beings before now, and
was not sorry to meet one of them again. The stranger's aspect, indeed,
was so good-humored and kindly, if not beneficent, that it would have
been unreasonable to suspect him of intending any mischief. It was far
more probable that he came to do Midas a favor. What could that favor be
unless to multiply his heaps of treasure?
The stranger gazed about the room, and when his lustrous smile had
glistened upon all the golden objects that were there, he turned again
to Midas.
"You are a wealthy man, friend Midas," he observed. "I doubt whether any
other four walls on earth contain so much gold as you have contrived to
pile up in this room."
"I have done pretty well--pretty well," answered Midas in a discontented
tone. "But, after all, it is but a trifle when you consider that it has
taken me my whole life to get it together. If one could live a thousand
years, he might have time to grow rich."
"What!" exclaimed the stranger. "Then you are not satisfied?"
Midas shook his head.
"And pray what would satisfy you?" asked the stranger. "Merely for the
curiosity of the thing, I should be glad to know."
Midas paused and meditated. He felt a presentiment that this stranger,
with such a golden luster in his good-humored smile, had come hither
with both the power and the purpose of gratifying his utmost wishes.
Now, therefore, was the fortunate moment when he had but to speak and
obtain whatever possible or seemingly impossible thing it might come
into his head to ask.
So he thought, and thought, and thought, and heaped up one golden
mountain upon another in his imagination, without being able to imagine
them big enough. At last a bright idea occurred to King Midas. It seemed
really as bright as the glistening metal which he loved so much.
Raising his head, he looked the lustrous stranger in the face.
"Well, Midas," observed his visitor, "I see that you have at length hit
upon something that will satisfy you. Tell me your wish."
"It is only this," replied Midas. "I am weary of collecting my treasures
with so much trouble, and beholding the heap so diminutive after I have
done my best. I wish everything that I touch to be changed to gold."
The stranger's smile grew so very broad that it seemed to fill the room
like an outburst of the sun gleaming into a shadowy dell where the
yellow autumnal leaves--for so looked the lumps and particles of gold--
lie strewn in the glow of light.
"The Golden Touch!" exclaimed he. "You certainly deserve credit, friend
Midas, for striking out so brilliant a conception. But are you quite
sure that this will satisfy you?"
"How could it fail?" said Midas.
"And will you never regret the possession of it?"
"What could induce me?" asked Midas. "I ask nothing else to render me
perfectly happy."
"Be it as you wish, then," replied the stranger, waving his hand in
token of farewell. "To-morrow at sunrise you will find yourself gifted
with the Golden Touch."
The figure of the stranger then became exceedingly bright, and Midas
involuntarily closed his eyes. On opening them again he beheld only one
yellow sunbeam in the room, and all around him the glistening of the
precious metal which he had spent his life in hoarding up.
Whether Midas slept as usual that night the story does not say. Asleep
or awake, however, his mind was probably in the state of a child's to
whom a beautiful new plaything has been promised in the morning. At any
rate, day had hardly peeped over the hills when King Midas was broad
awake, and stretching his arms out of bed, began to touch the objects
that were within reach. He was anxious to prove whether the Golden Touch
had really come, according to the stranger's promise. So he laid his
finger on a chair by the bedside and on various other things, but was
grievously disappointed to perceive that they remained of exactly the
same substance as before. Indeed, he felt very much afraid that he had
only dreamed about the lustrous stranger, or else that the latter had
been making game of him. And what a miserable affair would it be if,
after all his hopes, Midas must content himself with what little gold he
could scrape together by ordinary means instead of creating it by a
touch.
All this while it was only the gray of the morning, with but a streak of
brightness along the edge of the sky, where Midas could not see it. He
lay in a very disconsolate mood, regretting the downfall of his hopes,
and kept growing sadder and sadder until the earliest sunbeam shone
through the window and gilded the ceiling over his head. It seemed to
Midas that this bright yellow sunbeam was reflected in rather a singular
way on the white covering of the bed. Looking more closely, what was his
astonishment and delight when he found that this linen fabric had been
transmuted to what seemed a woven texture of the purest and brightest
gold! The Golden Touch had come to him with the first sunbeam!
Midas started up in a kind of joyful frenzy, and ran about the room
grasping at everything that happened to be in his way. He seized one of
the bed-posts, and it became immediately a fluted golden pillar. He
pulled aside a window-curtain in order to admit a clear spectacle of the
wonders which he was performing, and the tassel grew heavy in his hand--
a mass of gold. He took up a book from the table. At his first touch it
assumed the appearance of such a splendidly bound and gilt-edged volume
as one often meets with nowadays, but on running his fingers through the
leaves, behold! it was a bundle of thin golden plates, in which all the
wisdom of the book had grown illegible. He hurriedly put on his clothes,
and was enraptured to see himself in a magnificent suit of gold cloth,
which retained its flexibility and softness, although it burdened him a
little with its weight. He drew out his handkerchief, which little
Marygold had hemmed for him. That was likewise gold, with the dear
child's neat and pretty stitches running all along the border in gold
thread!
Somehow or other, this last transformation did not quite please King
Midas. He would rather that his little daughter's handiwork should have
remained just the same as when she climbed his knee and put it into his
hand.
But it was not worth while to vex himself about a trifle. Midas now took
his spectacles from his pocket, and put them on his nose in order that
he might see more distinctly what he was about. In those days spectacles
for common people had not been invented, but were already worn by kings,
else how could Midas have had any? To his great perplexity, however,
excellent as the glasses were, he discovered that he could not possibly
see through them. But this was the most natural thing in the world, for
on taking them off the transparent crystals turned out to be plates of
yellow metal, and of course were worthless as spectacles, though
valuable as gold. It struck Midas as rather inconvenient that, with all
his wealth, he could never again be rich enough to own a pair of
serviceable spectacles.
"It is no great matter, nevertheless," said he to himself, very
philosophically. "We cannot expect any great good without its being
accompanied with some small inconvenience. The Golden Touch is worth the
sacrifice of a pair of spectacles at least, if not of one's very
eyesight. My own eyes will serve for ordinary purposes, and little
Marygold will soon be old enough to read to me."
Wise King Midas was so exalted by his good fortune that the palace
seemed not sufficiently spacious to contain him. He therefore went
downstairs and smiled on observing that the balustrade of the staircase
became a bar of burnished gold as his hand passed over it in his
descent.
He lifted the doorlatch (it was brass only a moment ago, but golden when
his fingers quitted it) and emerged into the garden. Here, as it
happened, he found a great number of beautiful roses in full bloom and
others in all the stages of lovely bud and blossom. Very delicious was
their fragrance in the morning breeze. Their delicate blush was one of
the fairest sights in the world, so gentle, and so full of sweet
tranquility did these roses seem to be.
But Midas knew a way to make them far more precious, according to his
way of thinking, than roses had ever been before. So he took great pains
in going from bush to bush, and exercised his magic touch most
indefatigably, until every individual flower and bud, and even the worms
at the heart of some of them, were changed to gold. By the time this
good work was completed, King Midas was summoned to breakfast, and, as
the morning air had given him an excellent appetite, he made haste back
to the palace.
What was usually a king's breakfast in the days of Midas I really do not
know and cannot stop now to investigate. To the best of my belief,
however, on this particular morning the breakfast consisted of hot
cakes, some nice little brook trout, roasted potatoes, fresh boiled
eggs, and coffee for King Midas himself, and a bowl of bread and milk
for his daughter Marygold. At all events, this is a breakfast fit to set
before a king, and, whether he had it or not, King Midas could not have
had a better.
Little Marygold had not yet made her appearance. Her father ordered her
to be called, and, seating himself at the table, awaited the child's
coming in order to begin his own breakfast. To do Midas justice, he
really loved his daughter, and loved her so much the more this morning
on account of the good fortune which had befallen him. It was not a
great while before he heard her coming along the passageway crying
bitterly. This circumstance surprised him, because Marygold was one of
the cheerfulest little people whom you would see in a summer's day, and
hardly shed a thimbleful of tears in a twelvemonth. When Midas heard her
sobs he determined to put little Marygold into better spirits by an
agreeable surprise; so, leaning across the table, he touched his
daughter's bowl (which was a china one with pretty figures all around
it) and transmuted it to gleaming gold.
Meanwhile, Marygold slowly and disconsolately opened the door and showed
herself with her apron at her eyes, still sobbing as if her heart would
break.
"How now, my little lady!" cried Midas. "What is the matter with you
this morning?"
Marygold, without taking the apron from her eyes, held out her hand, in
which was one of the roses which Midas had so recently transmuted.
"Beautiful!" exclaimed her father. "And what is there in this
magnificent golden rose to make you cry?"
"Ah, dear father!" answered the child, as well as her sobs would let
her, "it is not beautiful, but the ugliest flower that ever grew. As
soon as I was dressed I ran into the garden to gather some roses for
you, because I know you like them, and like them the better when
gathered by your little daughter. But--oh dear! dear me!--what do you
think has happened? Such a misfortune! All the beautiful roses, that
smelled so sweetly and had so many lovely blushes, are blighted and
spoiled! They are grown quite yellow, as you see this one, and have no
longer any fragrance. What can be the matter with them?"
"Pooh, my dear little girl! pray don't cry about it!" said Midas, who
was ashamed to confess that he himself had wrought the change which so
greatly afflicted her. "Sit down and eat your bread and milk. You will
find it easy enough to exchange a golden rose like that, which will last
hundreds of years, for an ordinary one, which would wither in a day."
"I don't care for such roses as this!" cried Marygold, tossing it
contemptuously away. "It has no smell, and the hard petals prick my
nose."
The child now sat down to table, but was so occupied with her grief for
the blighted roses that she did not even notice the wonderful
transmutation of her china bowl. Perhaps this was all the better, for
Marygold was accustomed to take pleasure in looking at the queer figures
and strange trees and houses that were painted on the circumference of
the bowl, and these ornaments were now entirely lost in the yellow hue
of the metal.
Midas, meanwhile, had poured out a cup of coffee; and, as a matter of
course, the coffeepot, whatever metal it may have been when he took it
up, was gold when he set it down. He thought to himself that it was
rather an extravagant style of splendor, in a king of his simple habits,
to breakfast off a service of gold, and began to be puzzled with the
difficulty of keeping his treasures safe. The cupboard and the kitchen
would no longer be a secure place of deposit for articles so valuable as
golden bowls and coffeepots.
Amid these thoughts he lifted a spoonful of coffee to his lips, and
sipping it, was astonished to perceive that the instant his lips touched
the liquid it became molten gold, and the next moment hardened into a
lump.
"Ha!" exclaimed Midas, rather aghast.
"What is the matter, father?" asked little Marygold, gazing at him with
the tears still standing in her eyes.
"Nothing, child, nothing," said Midas. "Eat your milk before it gets
quite cold."
He took one of the nice little trouts on his plate, and, by way of
experiment, touched its tail with his finger. To his horror, it was
immediately transmuted from an admirably fried brook trout into a gold
fish, though not one of those gold fishes which people often keep in
glass globes as ornaments for the parlor. No; but it was really a
metallic fish, and looked as if it had been very cunningly made by the
nicest goldsmith in the world. Its little bones were now golden wires,
its fins and tail were thin plates of gold, and there were the marks of
the fork in it, and all the delicate, frothy appearance of a nicely
fried fish exactly imitated in metal. A very pretty piece of work, as
you may suppose; only King Midas, just at that moment, would much rather
have had a real trout in his dish than this elaborate and valuable
imitation of one.
"I don't quite see," thought he to himself, "how I am to get any
breakfast."
He took one of the smoking hot cakes, and had scarcely broken it when,
to his cruel mortification, though a moment before it had been of the
whitest wheat, it assumed the yellow hue of Indian meal. To say the
truth? if it had really been a hot Indian cake Midas would have prized
it a good deal more than he now did, when its solidity and increased
weight made him too bitterly sensible that it was gold. Almost in
despair, he helped himself to a boiled egg, which immediately underwent
a change similar to those of the trout and the cake. The egg, indeed,
might have been mistaken for one of those which the famous goose in the
storybook was in the habit of laying; but King Midas was the only goose
that had had anything to do with the matter.
"Well, this is a quandary!" thought he, leaning back in his chair and
looking quite enviously at little Marygold, who was now eating her bread
and milk with great satisfaction. "Such a costly breakfast before me,
and nothing that can be eaten!"
Hoping that, by dint of great dispatch, he might avoid what he now felt
to be a considerable inconvenience, King Midas next snatched a hot
potato, and attempted to cram it into his mouth and swallow it in a
hurry. But the Golden Touch was too nimble for him. He found his mouth
full, not of mealy potato, but of solid metal, which so burned his
tongue that he roared aloud, and, jumping up from the table, began to
dance and stamp about the room both with pain and affright.
"Father, dear father!" cried little Marygold, who was a very
affectionate child, "pray what is the matter? Have you burned your
mouth?"
"Ah, dear child," groaned Midas dolefully, "I don't know what is to
become of your poor father."
And truly, my dear little folks, did you ever hear of such a pitiable
case in all your lives? Here was literally the richest breakfast that
could be set before a king, and its very richness made it absolutely
good for nothing. The poorest laborer sitting down to his crust of bread
and cup of water was far better off than King Midas, whose delicate food
was really worth its weight in gold. And what was to be done? Already,
at breakfast, Midas was excessively hungry. Would he be less so by
dinner-time? And how ravenous would be his appetite for supper, which
must undoubtedly consist of the same sort of indigestible dishes as
those now before him! How many days, think you, would he survive a
continuance of this rich fare?
These reflections so troubled wise King Midas that he began to doubt
whether, after all, riches are the one desirable thing in the world, or
even the most desirable. But this was only a passing thought. So
fascinated was Midas with the glitter of the yellow metal that he would
still have refused to give up the Golden Touch for so paltry a
consideration as a breakfast. Just imagine what a price for one meal's
victuals! It would have been the same as paying millions and millions of
money (and as many millions more as would take forever to reckon up) for
some fried trout, an egg, a potatoes a hot cake, and a cup of coffee.
"It would be quite too dear," thought Midas.
Nevertheless, so great was his hunger and the perplexity of his
situation that he again groaned aloud, and very grievously, too. Our
pretty Marygold could endure it no longer. She sat a moment gazing at
her father and trying with all the might of her little wits to find out
what was the matter with him. Then, with a sweet and sorrowful impulse
to comfort him, she started from her chair, and, running to Midas, threw
her arms affectionately about his knees. He bent down and kissed her. He
felt that his little daughter's love was worth a thousand times more
than he had gained by the Golden Touch.
"My precious, precious Marygold!" cried he.
But Marygold made no answer.
Alas, what had he done? How fatal was the gift which the stranger
bestowed! The moment the lips of Midas touched Marygold's forehead a
change had taken place. Her sweet, rosy face, so full of affection as it
had been, assumed a glittering yellow color, with yellow tear-drops
congealing on her cheeks. Her beautiful brown ringlets took the same
tint. Her soft and tender little form grew hard and inflexible within
her father's encircling arms. Oh, terrible misfortune! The victim of his
insatiable desire for wealth, little Marygold was a human child no
longer, but a golden statue!
Yes, there she was, with the questioning look of love, grief, and pity
hardened into her face. It was the prettiest and most woeful sight that
ever mortal saw. All the features and tokens of Marygold were there;
even the beloved little dimple remained in her golden chin. But, the
more perfect was this resemblance, the greater was the father's agony at
beholding this golden image, which was all that was left him of a
daughter. It had been a favorite phrase of Midas, whenever he felt
particularly fond of the child, to say that she was worth her weight in
gold. And now the phrase had become literally true. And now at last,
when it was too late, he felt how infinitely a warm and tender heart
that loved him exceeded in value all the wealth that could be piled up
betwixt the earth and sky.
It would be too sad a story if I were to tell you how Midas, in the
fullness of all his gratified desires, began to wring his hands and
bemoan himself, and how he could neither bear to look at Marygold, nor
yet to look away from her. Except when his eyes were fixed on the image,
he could not possibly believe that she was changed to gold. But,
stealing another glance, there was the precious little figure, with a
yellow tear-drop on its yellow cheek, and a look so piteous and tender
that it seemed as if that very expression must needs soften the gold and
make it flesh again. This, however, could not be. So Midas had only to
wring his hands and to wish that he were the poorest man in the wide
world if the loss of all his wealth might bring back the faintest rose-
color to his dear child's face.
While he was in this tumult of despair he suddenly beheld a stranger
standing near the door. Midas bent down his head without speaking, for
he recognized the same figure which had appeared to him the day before
in the treasure-room and had bestowed on him this disastrous faculty of
the Golden Touch.
The stranger's countenance still wore a smile which seemed to shed a
yellow luster all about the room, and gleamed on little Marygold's image
and on the other objects that had been transmuted by the touch of Midas.
"Well, friend Midas," said the stranger, "pray how do you succeed with
the Golden Touch?"
Midas shook his head.
"I am very miserable," said he.
"Very miserable, indeed!" exclaimed the stranger. "And how happens that?
Have I not faithfully kept my promise with you? Have you not everything
that your heart desired?"
"Gold is not everything," answered Midas, "and I have lost all that my
heart really cared for."
"Ah! so you have made a discovery since yesterday?" observed the
stranger. "Let us see, then. Which of these two things do you think is,
really worth the most--the gift of the Golden Touch, or one cup of
clear, cold water?"
"Oh, blessed water!" exclaimed Midas. "It will never moisten my parched
throat again."
"The Golden Touch," continued the stranger, "or a crust of bread?"
"A piece of bread," answered Midas, "is worth all the gold on earth."
"The Golden Touch," asked the stranger, "or your own little Marygold,
warm, soft, and loving, as she was an hour ago?"
[Illustration: MARYGOLD WAS A GOLDEN STATUE!]
"Oh, my child, my dear child!" cried poor Midas, wringing his hands. "I
would not have given that one small dimple in her chin for the power of
changing this whole big earth into a solid lump of gold!"
"You are wiser than you were, King Midas," said the stranger, looking
seriously at him. "Your own heart, I perceive, has not been entirely
changed from flesh to gold. Were it so, your case would indeed be
desperate. But you appear to be still capable of understanding that the
commonest things, such as lie within everybody's grasp, are more
valuable than the riches which so many mortals sigh and struggle after.
Tell me now, do you sincerely desire to rid yourself of this Golden
Touch?"
"It is hateful to me!" replied Midas.
A fly settled on his nose, but immediately fell to the floor, for it,
too, had become gold. Midas shuddered.
"Go, then," said the stranger, "and plunge into the river that glides
past the bottom of your garden. Take likewise a vase of the same water,
and sprinkle it over any object that you may desire to change back again
from gold into its former substance. If you do this in earnestness and
sincerity, it may possibly repair the mischief which your avarice has
occasioned."
King Midas bowed low, and when he lifted his head the lustrous stranger
had vanished.
You will easily believe that Midas lost no time in snatching up a great
earthen pitcher (but alas me! it was no longer earthen after he touched
it) and hastening to the riverside. As he scampered along and forced his
way through the shrubbery, it was positively marvelous to see how the
foliage turned yellow behind him, as if the autumn had been there and
nowhere else.
On reaching the river's brink he plunged headlong in, without waiting so
much as to pull off his shoes.
"Poof! poof! poof!" snorted King Midas, as his head emerged out of the
water. "Well, this is really a refreshing bath, and I think it must have
washed away the Golden Touch. And now for filling my pitcher."
As he dipped the pitcher into the water it gladdened his very heart to
see it change from gold into the same good, honest earthen vessel which
it had been before he touched it. He was conscious also of a change
within himself. A cold, hard, and heavy weight seemed to have gone out
of his bosom. No doubt his heart had been gradually losing its human
substance and transmuting itself into insensible metal, but had now
softened back again into flesh. Perceiving a violet that grew on the
bank of the river, Midas touched it with his finger, and was overjoyed
to find that the delicate flower retained its purple hue, instead of
undergoing a yellow blight. The curse of the Golden Touch had therefore
really been removed from him.
King Midas hastened back to the palace, and I suppose the servants knew
not what to make of it when they saw their royal master so carefully
bringing home an earthen pitcher of water. But that water, which was to
undo all the mischief that his folly had wrought, was more precious to
Midas than an ocean of molten gold could have been. The first thing he
did, as you need hardly be told, was to sprinkle it by handfuls over the
golden figure of little Marygold.
No sooner did it fall on her than you would have laughed to see how the
rosy color came back to the dear child's cheek, and how she began to
sneeze and sputter, and how astonished she was to find herself dripping
wet and her father still throwing more water over her.
"Pray do not, dear father!" cried she. "See how you have wet my nice
frock, which I put on only this morning."
For Marygold did not know that she had been a little golden statue, nor
could she remember anything that had happened since the moment when she
ran with outstretched arms to comfort poor King Midas.
Her father did not think it necessary to tell his beloved child how very
foolish he had been, but contented himself with showing how much wiser
he had now grown. For this purpose he led little Marygold into the
garden, where he sprinkled all the remainder of the water over the rose-
bushes, and with such good effect that above five thousand roses
recovered their beautiful bloom. There were two circumstances, however,
which, as long as he lived, used to put King Midas in mind of the Golden
Touch.
One was that the sands of the river sparkled like gold; the other, that
little Marygold's hair had now a golden tinge which he had never
observed in it before she had been transmuted by the effect of his kiss.
The change of hue was really an improvement, and made Marygold's hair
richer than in her babyhood.
When King Midas had grown quite an old man and used to trot Marygold's
children on his knee, he was fond of telling them this marvelous story,
pretty much as I have told it to you. And then he would stroke their
glossy ringlets and tell them that their hair likewise had a rich shade
of gold, which they had inherited from their mother.
"And to tell you the truth, my precious little folks," quoth King Midas,
diligently trotting the children all the while, "ever since that morning
I have hated the very sight of all other gold save this."
Hawthorne was by no means the first man who ever told about King Midas,
nor are the children who have lived since his time the first who ever
heard this story; for hundreds and hundreds of years ago, in a country
very different from ours, the little Greek children heard it told in a
language that would seem very strange to us. However, Hawthorne has by
no means told the story just as the Greek mothers or Greek nurses might
have told it to their children; he has added much which makes the story
seem more real and the characters more human.
For instance, as he says, the old myth told nothing about any daughter
of Midas's, and yet I think we are all ready to admit that we should not
love the story half so well without dear little Marygold.
Then too, the talk about Midas's spectacles and about his trotting his
grandchildren on his knee is but a little pleasant fooling on the part
of Hawthorne, for spectacles were not even thought of for centuries
after the time of old King Midas, and it is much more than unlikely that
any old Greek ever trotted children on his knee.
Hawthorne had a perfect right to make these changes in the story; for
the old myths have come down to us from so long ago that they seem to
belong to everybody, and every one forms his own ideas of them.
Thus you will see that while the author of this story thought of
Marygold as a little child who climbed up onto her father's knee, the
artists in dealing with the subject have thought of her as almost a
young woman. Which of these two ideas do you like better?
THE CHILD'S WORLD
By W. B. Rands
Great, wide, beautiful, wonderful World,
With the wonderful water round you curled,
And the wonderful grass upon your breast--
World, you are beautifully dressed.
The wonderful air is over me,
And the wonderful wind is shaking the tree;
It walks on the water, and whirls the mills,
And talks to itself on the tops of the hills.
You, friendly Earth! how far do you go
With the wheat-fields that nod and the rivers that flow,
With cities and gardens, and cliffs, and isles,
And people upon you for thousands of miles?
Ah, you are so great, and I am so small,
I tremble to think of you, World, at all;
And yet, when I said my prayers to-day,
A whisper inside me seemed to say:
"You are more than the Earth, though you are such a dot--
You can love and think, and the Earth cannot!"
THE FIR TREE
By Hans Christian Andersen
Out in the forest stood a pretty little Fir Tree. It had a good place;
it could have sunlight, air there was in plenty, and all around grew
many larger comrades--pines as well as firs. But the little Fir Tree
wished ardently to become greater. It did not care for the warm sun and
the fresh air; it took no notice of the peasant children, who went about
talking together, when they had come out to look for strawberries and
raspberries. The children often came with a whole basketful, or with a
string of berries which they had strung on a straw. Then they would sit
down by the little Fir Tree and say, "How pretty and small this one is!"
The Fir Tree did not like that at all.
Next year he had grown bigger, and the following year he was taller
still.
"Oh, if I were only as tall as the others!" sighed the little Fir. "Then
I would spread my branches far around and look out from my crown into
the wide world. The birds would then build nests in my boughs, and when
the wind blew I would nod grandly."
It took no pleasure in the sunshine, in the birds, or in the red clouds
that went sailing over it morning and evening.
[Illustration: THE SWALLOWS AND THE STORK CAME]
When it was winter, and the snow lay all around, white and sparkling, a
hare would often come jumping along and spring right over the little Fir
Tree. O, that made him so angry! But two winters went by, and when the
third came, the little Tree had grown so tall that the hare was obliged
to run around it.
"Oh, to grow, to grow, and become old; that's the only fine thing in the
world," thought the Tree.
In the autumn the woodcutters always came and felled a few of the
largest trees; that was done this year, too, and the little Fir Tree,
that was now quite well grown, shuddered with fear, for the stately
trees fell to the ground with a crash, and their branches were cut off,
so that the trees looked quite naked, long and slender, and could hardly
he recognized. Then they were laid upon wagons, and the horses dragged
them away out of the wood. Where were they going? What destiny awaited
them?
In the spring, when the Swallows and the Stork came, the Tree asked
them, "Do you know where the big firs were taken? Did you meet them?"
The Swallows knew nothing about it, but the Stork looked thoughtful,
nodded his head and said: "Yes, I think so. I met many new ships when I
flew out of Egypt; on the ships were tall masts; I fancy these were the
trees. They smelt like fir. I can assure you they're stately--very
stately."
"Oh, that I were big enough to go over the sea. What kind of a thing is
this sea, and how does it look?"
"It would take long to explain all that," said the Stork, and he went
away.
"Rejoice in thy youth," said the Sunbeams; "rejoice in thy fresh growth,
and in the young life that is within thee."
And the wind kissed the Tree, and the Dew wept tears upon it; but the
Fir Tree did not understand.
When Christmas time approached, quite young trees were felled, sometimes
trees which were neither so old nor so large as this Fir Tree, that
never rested, but always wanted to go away. These beautiful young trees
kept all their branches; they were put upon wagons, and horses dragged
them away out of the wood.
"Where are they all going?" asked the Fir Tree. "They are not greater
than I--indeed, one of them was much smaller. Why do they keep all their
branches? Whither are they taken?"
"We know that! We know that!" chirped the Sparrows. "Yonder in the town
we looked in at the windows. We know where the fir trees go. We have
looked in at the windows and have seen that they are planted in the
middle of a warm room and dressed up in the greatest splendor with the
most beautiful things--gilt apples, honey-cakes, playthings, and many
hundreds of candles."
"And then?" asked the Fir Tree, trembling through all its branches. "And
then? what happens then?" "Why, we have not seen anything more. But it
was wonderful!"
"Perhaps I may be destined to this glorious end one day!" cried the Fir
Tree, rejoicing. "That is even better than traveling across the sea. How
I long for it! If it were only Christmas! Now I am great and grown up
like the rest who were led away last year. Oh, if I were only on the
wagon! If I were only in the warm room amidst all the pomp and splendor!
And then? Yes, then something even better will come, something far more
charming, else why should they adorn me so? There must be something
grander, something greater still to come; but what? Oh! I'm suffering,
I'm longing! I don't know myself what is the matter with me!"
"Rejoice in us," said Air and Sunshine. "Rejoice in thy fresh youth here
in the woodland."
The Fir Tree did not rejoice at all, but it grew and grew; winter and
summer it stood there, green, dark green. The people who saw it said,
"That's a handsome tree!" and at Christmas time it was felled before any
of the others. The axe cut deep into its marrow, and the tree fell to
the ground with a sigh; it felt a pain, a sensation of faintness, and
could not think at all of happiness, for it was sad at parting from its
home, from the place where it had grown up; it knew that it should never
again see the dear old companions, the little bushes and the flowers all
around, perhaps not even the birds. The Tree came to itself only when it
was unloaded in a yard, with other trees, and heard a man say:
"This one is famous; we want only this one!"
Now two servants came in gay liveries, and carried the Fir Tree into a
large, beautiful room. All around the walls hung pictures, and by the
great stove stood large Chinese vases with lions on the covers; there
were rocking chairs, silken sofas, great tables covered with picture
books, and toys worth a hundred times a hundred dollars; at least, the
children said so. And the Fir Tree was put into a great tub filled with
sand; but no one could see that it was a tub, for it was hung round with
green cloth, and stood on a large, many-colored carpet. Oh, how the Tree
trembled! What was to happen now? The servants, and the young ladies
also, decked it out. On one branch they hung little bags cut out of
colored paper, and every bag was filled with sweetmeats. Golden apples
and walnuts hung down as if they grew there, and more than a hundred
little candles, red, white, and blue, were fastened to the different
boughs. Dolls that looked exactly like real people--the Tree had never
seen such before--swung among the foliage, and high on the summit of the
Tree was fixed a tinsel star. It was splendid.
"This evening," said all, "this evening it will shine."
"Oh," thought the Tree, "that it were evening already! Oh that the
lights may be soon lit! When will that be done? I wonder if trees will
come out of the forest to look at me? Will the Sparrows fly against the
panes? Shall I grow fast here, and stand adorned in summer and winter?"
But the Tree had a backache from mere longing, and the backache is just
as bad for a tree as the headache for a person.
At last the candles were lighted. What a brilliance, what splendor! The
Tree trembled so in all its branches that one of the candles set fire to
a green twig, and it was scorched, but one of the young ladies hastily
put the fire out.
Now the Tree might not even tremble. Oh, that was terrible! It was so
afraid of setting fire to some of its ornaments, and it was quite
bewildered with all the brilliance. And now the folding doors were
thrown open, and a number of children rushed in as if they would have
overturned the whole Tree, while the older people followed more
deliberately. The little ones stood quite silent, but only for a minute;
then they shouted till the room rang; they danced gleefully round the
Tree; and one present after another was plucked from it.
"What are they about?" thought the Tree. "What's going to be done?"
And the candles burned down to the twigs, and as they burned down they
were extinguished, and then the children were given permission to
plunder the Tree. They rushed in upon it, so that every branch cracked
again; if it had not been fastened by the top and by the golden star to
the ceiling, the Tree certainly would have fallen down.
The children danced about with their pretty toys. No one looked at the
Tree except one old man, who came up and peeped among the branches, but
only to see if a fig or an apple had not been forgotten.
"A story! A story!" shouted the children, as they drew a little fat man
toward the Tree. He sat down just beneath it--"for then we shall be in
the green wood," said he, "and the Tree may have the advantage of
listening to my tale. But I can tell only one. Will you hear the story
of Ivede-Avede, or of Klumpey-Dumpey, who fell downstairs, and still was
raised up to honor and married the princess?"
"Ivede-Avede," cried some; "Klumpey-Dumpey," cried others, and there was
a great crying and shouting. Only the Fir Tree was silent, and thought,
"Shall I not be in it? Shall I have nothing to do in it?" But he had
been in the evening's amusement and had done what was required of him.
And the fat man told about Klumpey-Dumpey, who fell downstairs, and yet
was raised to honor and married the princess. And the children clapped
their hands, and cried, "Tell another, tell another!" for they wanted to
hear about Ivede-Avede; but they got only the story of Klumpey-Dumpey.
The Fir Tree stood quite silent and thoughtful; never had the birds in
the wood told such a story as that. Klumpey-Dumpey fell downstairs, and
yet came to honor and married the princess!
"Yes, so it happens in the world!" thought the Fir Tree, and believed it
must be true, because that was such a nice man who told it. "Well, who
can know? Perhaps I shall fall downstairs, too, and marry a princess!"
And it looked forward with pleasure to being adorned again, the next
evening, with candles and toys, gold and fruit. "To-morrow I shall not
tremble," it thought. "I shall rejoice in all my splendor. To-morrow I
shall hear the story of Klumpey-Dumpey again, and perhaps that of Ivede-
Avede, too."
And the Tree stood all night quiet and thoughtful.
In the morning the servants and the chambermaid came in.
"Now my splendor will begin afresh," thought the Tree.
But they dragged him out of the room and up-stairs to the garret, and
there they put him in a dark corner where no daylight shone.
"What's the meaning of this?" thought the Tree. "What am I to do here?
What is to happen?"
And he leaned against the wall, and thought, and thought. And he had
time enough, for days and nights went by, and nobody came up; and when
at length some one came, it was only to put some great boxes in a
corner. Now the Tree stood quite hidden away, and the supposition is
that it was quite forgotten.
[Illustration: THE FAT MAN TOLD ABOUT KLUMPEY-DUMPEY]
"Now it's winter outside," thought the Tree. "The earth is hard and
covered with snow, and people cannot plant me; therefore I suppose I'm
to be sheltered here until spring comes. How considerate that is! How
good people are! If it were only not so dark here, and so terribly
solitary! Not even a little hare! It was pretty out there in the wood,
when the snow lay thick and the hare sprang past; yes, even when he
jumped over me; but then I did not like it. It is terribly lonely up
here!"
"Piep! Piep!" said a little Mouse, and crept forward, and then came
another little one. They smelt at the Fir Tree, and then slipped among
the branches.
"It's horribly cold," said the two little Mice, "or else it would be
comfortable here. Don't you think so, you old Fir Tree?"
"I'm not old at all," said the Fir Tree. "There are many much older than
I."
"Where do you come from?" asked the Mice. "And what do you know?" They
were dreadfully inquisitive.
"Tell us about the most beautiful spot on the earth. Have you been
there? Have you been in the storeroom, where cheeses lie on the shelves,
and hams hang from the ceiling; where one dances on tallow candles, and
goes in thin and comes out fat?"
"I don't know that," replied the Tree; "but I know the wood, where the
sun shines and the birds sing." And then it told all about its youth.
And the little Mice had never heard anything of the kind; and they
listened, and said:
"What a number of things you have seen! How happy you must have been!"
"I?" replied the Fir Tree; and it thought about what it had told. "Yes,
those were really quite happy times." But then he told of the Christmas
Eve, when he had been hung with sweatmeats and candles.
"Oh!" said the little Mice, "how happy you have been, you old Fir Tree!"
"I'm not old at all," said the Tree. "I came out of the wood only this
winter. I'm only rather backward in my growth."
"What splendid stories you can tell!" said the little Mice.
And next night they came with four other little Mice, to hear what the
Tree had to relate; and the more it said, the more clearly did it
remember everything, and thought, "Those were quite merry days. But they
may come again. Klumpey-Dumpey fell downstairs, and yet he married the
princess. Perhaps I may marry a princess, too!" And then the Fir Tree
thought of a pretty little Birch Tree that grew out in the forest; for
the Fir Tree, that Birch was a real princess.
"Who's Klumpey-Dumpey?" asked the little Mice.
And then the Fir Tree told the whole story. It could remember every
single word; and the little Mice were ready to leap to the very top of
the tree with pleasure. Next night a great many more Mice came, and on
Sunday two Rats even appeared; but these thought the story was not
pretty, and the little Mice were sorry for that, for now they also did
not like it so much as before.
"Do you know only one story?" asked the Rats.
"Only that one," replied the Tree. "I heard that on the happiest evening
of my life; I did not think then how happy I was."
"That's a very miserable story. Don't you know any about bacon and
tallow candles--a storeroom story?"
"No," said the Tree.
"Then we'd rather not hear you," said the Rats. And they went back to
their own people. The little Mice at last also stayed away; and then the
Tree sighed and said, "It was very nice when they sat around me, the
merry little Mice, and listened when I spoke to them. Now that's past,
too. But I shall remember to be pleased when they take me out."
But when did that happen? Why, it was one morning that people came and
rummaged in the garret; the boxes were put away, and the Tree was
brought out; they certainly threw him rather roughly on the floor, but a
servant dragged him away at once to the stairs, where the daylight
shone.
"Now life is beginning again," thought the Tree.
It felt the fresh air and the first sunbeams, and then it was out in the
courtyard. Everything passed so quickly that the Tree quite forgot to
look at itself, there was so much to look at all around. The courtyard
was close to a garden, and there everything was blooming; the roses hung
fresh and fragrant over the little paling, the linden trees were in
blossom, and the swallows cried, "Quinze-wit! quinze-wit! my husband's
come!" But it was not the Fir Tree that they meant.
"Now I shall live!" cried the Tree, rejoicingly, and spread its branches
far out; but, alas! they were all withered and yellow, and it lay in the
corner among nettles and weeds. The tinsel star was still upon it, and
shone in the bright sunshine.
In the courtyard a couple of the merry children were playing who had
danced round the Tree at Christmas time, and had rejoiced over it. One
of the youngest ran up and tore off the golden star.
"Look what is sticking to the ugly old Fir Tree!" said the child, and he
trod on the branches till they cracked under his boots.
And the Tree looked at all the blooming flowers and the splendor of the
garden, then looked at itself, and wished it had remained in the dark
corner of the garret; it thought of its fresh youth in the wood, of the
merry Christmas Eve, and of the little Mice which had listened so
pleasantly to the story of Klumpey-Dumpey.
"Past! past!" said the old Tree. "Had I but rejoiced when I could have
done so! Past! past!"
And the servant came and chopped the Tree into little pieces; a whole
bundle lay there; it blazed brightly under the great brewing copper, and
it sighed deeply, and each sigh was like a little shot; and the
children, who were at play there, ran up, seated themselves by the fire,
looked into it, and cried "Puff! puff!" But at each explosion, which was
a deep sigh, the Tree thought of a summer day in the woods, or of a
winter night there, when the stars beamed; he thought of Christmas Eve
and of Klumpey-Dumpey, the only story he had ever heard or knew how to
tell; and thus the Tree was burned.
The boys played in the garden, and the youngest had on his breast a
golden star, which the Tree had worn on its happiest evening. Now that
was past, and the Tree's life was past, and the story is past, too:
past! past!--and that's the way with all stories.
HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN
When a man writes as beautiful and as interesting stories as Hans
Christian Andersen has written for children, we like to know something
about him; and we find that nothing that he ever wrote was much more
interesting than his own life. Certainly no one who knew him while he
was a child could have thought that he would ever have much chance of
becoming a famous man.
He was born on April 2nd, 1805, in the city of Odense, in Denmark. The
room in which he was born was kitchen, parlor, bedroom and workshop for
the whole family, for the family of Andersen had little to do with, and
little knowledge of how to make the best of what they had. The father
was a cobbler, but a cobbler who was much more interested in other
things than he was in his trade, into which he had been forced quite
contrary to his own wishes. The mother was a careless, easy-going
person, who was kind to her child, but had not the slightest idea of
training him, or of restraining any of his odd tastes. These tastes were
determined more or less by his father, who was a great reader,
particularly of plays; and we see the results of this early introduction
to the drama in Hans Christian Andersen throughout his life.
Little Hans Christian was a most extraordinary child. He was ugly, as he
remained all his life; for his body and neck were too long and too thin,
his feet and his hands were too large and too bony, his nose was large
and hooked, and his eyes were small and set like a Chinaman's. However,
it was not his looks, but his oddity, which cut him off from other
children. He would sit all day and make doll clothes, or cut dolls and
animals out of paper; and these were not things which would be likely to
make other boys like him and admire him. He had little schooling, and
even when he was a grown man he knew none too much of the grammar of his
own language.
After his father's death, when he himself was about eleven, little Hans
Christian was more solitary than before, and shut himself up still more
with his doll's clothes, his toy theaters, and his books, for he was,
like his father, very fond of reading. Especially did he like those
books which had anything about ghosts or witches or fairies in them.
While he was but a child, he wrote a play of his own, in which most of
the characters were kings and queens and princesses; and because he felt
that it could not be possible that such lofty personages would talk the
same language as ordinary people, he picked out from a dictionary, which
he managed somehow to get hold of, French words, German words, English
words, and high-sounding Danish words, and strung them all together to
make up the conversation of his characters.
It was no more than natural that such a strange, unattractive-looking
child should be made fun of by the prosaic, commonplace people of his
neighborhood, and this was untold pain to the sensitive boy. There were,
however, in the town, people of a higher class, who perceived in the boy
something beyond the ordinary, and who interested themselves in his
behalf. They had him sent to school, but he preferred to dream away his
time rather than to study, and his short period of schooling really
taught him nothing.
His mother, careless as she was, began to see that matters must change--
that the boy could not go on all his life in this aimless fashion; but
since he steadily declined to be a tailor or a cobbler, or indeed to
take up any trade, it seemed no easy question to settle. However, in
1818, there came to Odense a troupe of actors who gave plays and operas.
Young Andersen, who by making acquaintance with the billposter was
allowed to witness the performances from behind the scenes, decided at
once that he was cut out to be an actor. There was no demand for actors
in his native town, and he therefore decided to go to Copenhagen, the
capital of Denmark, there to seek his fortune.
With about five dollars in his pocket, Andersen reached Copenhagen in
September, 1819, but he found that a fortune was by no means as easily
made as he had fancied. He himself felt convinced that he should be a
famous actor, but how was he to convince any one else of this fact? From
one actor to another, from one theater manager to another he went, but
all told him that for one reason or another he was not fitted for the
stage. Particularly did Andersen resent the excuse of one manager, who
told him that he was too thin. This fault Andersen assured him that he
was only too willing to remedy, if he would only give him a chance and a
salary; but still the manager refused.
Finally the boy was destitute of money and knew not where to turn for
more, for he was too proud to go back to his native town. However, an
Italian singing teacher, Siboni, into whose home Andersen had almost
forced himself while a dinner party was in progress, became interested
in him, and with some friends provided him with enough to live on. He
also gave him singing lessons until the boy's voice gave out. Other
influential people gradually became interested in the strange creature,
who certainly did appear to have some talent, but who had even more
obvious defects; and so he lived on, supported in the most meager
fashion.
Determined to write plays if he could not play them, Andersen composed
drama after drama. He would rush into the house of a total stranger, of
whom perhaps he had heard as a patron of genius, declaim some scenes
from his plays, and then rush out, leaving his auditor in gasping
amazement. Finally he made the acquaintance of one of the directors of
the Royal Theatre, Jonas Collin, who was ever afterward his best friend.
Through the influence of this kindly man, Anderson was sent to school at
Slagelse, and as he said later, the days of his degradation were over
once and for all.
Andersen did not have an entirely pleasant time at school. He loved
systematic study no more than he had early in his life, and he did not
fall in very readily with his young companions. However, he persisted,
for he was ashamed to disappoint his patron, Collin, and by the time he
left school in 1827, he had an education of which he needed not to be
ashamed. After his return to Copenhagen, he was able to pass his
examinations satisfactorily.
[Illustration: HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN 1805-1875]
From this time on, Andersen's life was in the main happy, although he
was so sensitive and so sentimental that he was constantly fancying
grievances where none existed, and making himself miserable over
imaginary snubs. It is true that his dramatic works were not well
received, but this was because there was no real merit in them, and not,
as Andersen persisted in believing, because the critics to whom they
were submitted had grudges against him. His first works that made a
distinctly favorable impression were travel sketches, for Andersen was
all his life a great traveler, and knew how to write most charmingly and
humorously of all that he saw. His trips to other countries were all
treated most delightfully, and every book that appeared increased the
author's fame. His visit to Italy, the country which all his life he
loved above any other, also resulted in a novel, THE IMPROVISATORE,
which became immensely popular and caused Andersen to be hailed as a
future great novelist.
However, it was neither for travel sketches nor for novels that he was
to be best known, but for something entirely different, which he himself
was inclined at first to look down upon, and which many of his critics
at the outset regarded as mere child's play. These were the fairy tales
which he began in 1835, and which he published at intervals from that
time until his death. The children loved The Ugly Duckling, The Fir Tree
and The Snow Queen; but it was not only the children who loved them.
Gradually people all over the world began to realize that here was a man
who knew how to tell tales to children in so masterly a manner that even
grown folks would do well to listen to him.
Now that Andersen was at the height of his fame, he had no lack of
friends; for whether he was in Germany, or Spain, or England, he was
everywhere given ovations that were fit for a king, and was everywhere
entertained by the best people in the most sumptuous manner. At one time
he stayed for five weeks with Charles Dickens in his home at Gad's Hill,
and the two were ever afterward firm friends. All of these people loved
Andersen, not because of his fame, but because of the stories which had
brought him fame, and because he was distinctly lovable in spite of his
oddity; for Andersen was still odd. He was ugly and ungainly, and, owing
to his fondness for decoration, often dressed in the most peculiar
fashion. Then, too, he was so childishly vain of the fame which had come
to him that he was at any time quite likely to stop in a crowded street
and call across to a friend on the other side about some favorable
notice which he had just received. After people became accustomed to
this trait, however, they saw that it was but another phase of the
childlikeness which made Andersen so charming and so unlike many other
famous men.
Despite his intimate knowledge of children, Andersen was never really
fond of them. They worried him, and he, for some reason or other, never
seemed very attractive to them. But if he could be induced to tell them
or read them one of his stories, illustrating it with the queer antics
and faces which he alone knew how to make, he was certain of an
intensely interested audience.
Andersen's fame and the love felt for him at home and abroad grew with
his every year, and when he died, in 1875, his death was looked upon as
a more than national calamity. The highest people in Denmark, including
the king and queen, who had come to look upon Andersen's friendship as a
great honor, followed him to his grave; and children all over the world
sorrowed when they were told that the author of the beloved Fairy Tales
would never write them another story.
PICTURE-BOOKS IN WINTER
By Robert Louis Stevenson
Summer fading, winter comes--
Frosty mornings, tingling thumbs,
Window robins, winter rooks,
And the picture story-books.
Water now is turned to stone
Nurse and I can walk upon;
Still we find the flowing brooks
In the picture story-books.
All the pretty things put by
Wait upon the children's eye--
Sheep and shepherds, trees and crooks,
In the picture story-books.
We may see now all things are--
Seas and cities, near and far,
And the flying fairies' looks--
In the picture story-books.
How am I to sing your praise,
Happy chimney-corner days,
Sitting safe in nursery nooks,
Reading picture story-books!
What we like about so fine a little poem as this is that it sets our
thoughts to flying. As we read it, we see autumn coming on, with the red
and the gold and the orange tinting the leaves. We can hear the last
notes of the birds as they wing their way through the soft blue sky to
gayer places in the warm southland. The cold comes fast, and in the
morning, as we try to play ball or gather the ripe nuts from the hazel
bushes, our thumbs tingle with the frost.
The little Scotch boy sees his robin, a little bird with a reddish-
yellow breast, come to his window, and hears the cawing of the rooks. We
in the United States can hear the rough voice of the blue-jay, or
perhaps see the busy downy woodpecker tapping industriously at the suet
we have hung in the tree for him.
A few days later the water in the pond becomes hard as stone, and we can
walk over its smooth, glittering surface, or, if we are old enough, can
make our way back and forth in widening circles to the music of our
ringing skates. When the cold grows too severe and our cheeks burn in
the wind, we can run inside, curl up in a big chair where it is warm and
cheery, and, burying our faces in our favorite books, can see once more
the little waves dancing on the pebbly shore of the pond, and hear the
babble of the brook.
What can we find in the books? Everything that makes life merry, and
everything that helps us to be true and manly. Out in the pasture the
sheep are grazing, and among them walk the shepherds, singing gaily to
the wide sky and the bright sun. When, perchance, a frisking lamb strays
near the woods where perils lie, the shepherd follows, and with the
crook at the end of his staff draws the wanderer back to safety.
These wonderful books of ours will carry us across the seas, even. We,
for instance, might go to Scotland and play with the boy Stevenson. What
a delight it would be; for the man who can write so charmingly about
children must have been a wonderfully interesting boy to play with. And
the cities we should see--quaint old Edinburgh, with its big, frowning
castle on the top of that high rugged hill, and in the castle yard, old
Mons Meg, the big cannon that every Scotch lad feels that he must crawl
into.
If that is too far away from us, we will come back to Boston, and walk
through the Common, and hear again the Yankee boys bravely complaining
to General Gage because the British soldiers have trampled down the snow
fort the youngsters have built.
But those are only real things; the more wonderful things are the flying
fairies whose deeds we may read in this very book.
But how can we write in prose the praise of the picture story-books when
Stevenson thinks he cannot do it in his pretty rhymes? Moreover, we have
just found out that the poet's chimney corner is filled with the little
ones who can read only the simplest things, and need big, fine pictures
and easy words. He was not writing for us at all--but that does not
matter. His little poem pleases us just the same.
Let us turn back and read it again--I suspect that, after all, we are
all of us small enough to sit in a chimney corner; and perhaps every
book is but a picture story-book to the man or woman who is old enough
and big enough to read it rightly.
HOW THE WOLF WAS BOUND
Adapted by Anna McCaleb
It seems strange that any one who might have lived with the gods in
their beautiful city of Asgard [Footnote: The Norse peoples believed
that their gods lived above the earth in a wonderful city named Asgard.
From this city they crossed to the earth on a bridge, which by people on
earth was known as the rainbow.] and have shared in their joys and their
good works should have preferred to associate with the ugly, wicked
giants. But that was the case with Loki--Red Loki, as he was called,
because of his red hair. He was handsome like a god; he was wise and
clever like a god--more clever than any of the other gods. In one way,
however, he differed from the others; he had a bad heart, and liked much
better to use his cleverness in getting gods and men into trouble than
in making them happy. Besides this, he was very proud, and could not
bear to submit even to Odin, the king of the gods.
"Who is Odin," [Footnote: Odin, chief of the Norse gods, had been
induced to part with one eye in exchange for wisdom.] he muttered, "that
he should be set over me? Is he more clever than I am? Is he more
handsome, with his one eye and his gray beard?" And Loki held his
handsome head high.
Proud as he was, however, he was not too proud to do a disgraceful
thing. He went off to the home of the giants and married the ugliest and
fiercest of all the giantesses. Just why he did it does not seem very
clear, for he certainly could not have loved her. Perhaps he did it just
to spite the other gods and to show them that he cared nothing for what
they thought.
But he must have repented of his act when he saw the children which the
giantess bore him, for they were certainly the most hideous and
frightful children that were ever born into the world. The daughter,
Hela, was the least awful, but even she was by no means a person one
would care to meet. She was half white and half blue, and she had such
gloomy, angry eyes that any one who looked at her sank into
unconquerable sadness and finally into death. But the other two! One was
a huge, glistening, scaly serpent, with a mouth that dripped poison, and
glaring, beady eyes; and the other was a white-fanged, red-eyed wolf.
These two monsters grew so rapidly that the king of the gods, looking
down from his throne in the heavens, was struck with fear.
"The gods themselves will not be safe if those monsters are allowed to
go unchecked," he said. "Down there in the home of the giants they will
be taught to hate the gods, and at the rate they're growing, they'll
soon be strong enough to shake our very palaces."
He sent, therefore, the strongest of his sons to fetch the children of
Loki before him. Well was it for those gathered about Odin's throne that
they were gods and goddesses, else would the eyes of Hela have sent them
to their death. Upon her, Odin looked more in pity than in anger--she
was not all bad.
"You, Hela," he said, "although it is not safe to allow you to remain
above ground, where you may do great harm to men, are not all wicked.
Honor, therefore, shall be yours, and ease; but happiness shall be far
from you. I shall make you queen over the regions of the dead--that
kingdom which is as large as nine worlds."
Then it was believed that the only honorable form of death was death in
battle; and the bravest of the heroes who died in battle were brought by
Odin's messengers, the Valkyries, who always hovered on their cloud-
horses above battlefields, to the great palace of Valhalla. Therefore
only the cowards or the weak, who died in their beds, went to the
underground realm, and Hela knew that they were not subjects of whom she
could be proud. Nevertheless, she went without a word.
Odin, then, without speaking, suddenly stooped and seized in his strong
arms the wriggling, slippery serpent. Over the wall of the city he threw
it, and the gods watched it as it fell down, down, down, until at last
it sank from sight into the sea. This was by no means the last of the
serpent, however; under the water it grew and grew until it was so large
that it formed a girdle about the whole earth, and could hold its tail
in its mouth.
The question as to what should be done with the great wolf, Fenris, was
not so easily answered. It seemed to all the gods that he had grown
larger and fiercer in the brief time he had stood before them, and none
of them dared touch him. At length some one whispered, "Let us kill
him," and the wolf turned and showed his teeth at the speaker; for as he
was the son of Loki, he could understand and speak the language of the
gods.
"That cannot be," said Odin. "Have we not sworn that the streets of our
city shall never be stained with blood? Let us leave the matter until
another time."
So the wolf was permitted to roam about Asgard, and the gods all tried
to be kind to him, for they thought that by their kindness they might
tame him. However, he grew stronger and stronger and more and more
vicious, until only Tyr, [Footnote: Tyr was the Norse war-god.] the
bravest of all the gods, dared go near him to give him food. One day, as
the gods sat in their council hall, they heard the wolf howling through
the streets.
"How long," said Odin, "is our city to be made hideous by such noises?
We must bind Fenris the wolf."
Silence followed his words, for all knew what a serious thing it was
that Odin proposed. Fenris must be bound--that was true; but who would
dare attempt the task? And what chain could ever hold him? At length
Thor [Footnote: Thor, god of thunder, was the strongest of all the gods]
arose, and all sighed with relief; for if any one could bind the wolf,
it was Thor. "I will make a chain," he said, "stronger than ever chain
was before, and then we shall find some way to fasten it upon him."
Thor strode to his smithy, and heaped his fire high. All night he worked
at his anvil; whenever any of the gods awakened they could hear the
clank! clank! clank! of his great hammer, and could see from their
windows the sparks from his smithy shining through the gloom. In the
morning the chain was finished, and all wondered at its strength, Then
Thor called to the huge wolf and said:
"Fenris, you are stronger than any of the gods. We cannot break this
chain, but for you it will be mere child's play. Let yourself be bound
with it, that we may see how great your strength really is."
Now the wolf knew his might better than any of them did, and he suffered
himself to be bound fast. Then he arose, stretched himself as if he were
just waking from a nap, and calmly walked off, leaving the fragments of
the chain on the ground. The amazed gods looked at each other with
fright in their eyes--what could they do?
"I will make a stronger chain," said Thor, undiscouraged. And again he
went to his smithy, where he worked all day and all night.
"This is the strongest chain that can ever be made," he said, when he
presented it to the gods. "If this will not hold him, nothing can."
Calling the wolf, they flattered him and praised his strength, and
finally persuaded him to let himself be bound with this chain, "just for
a joke." You may be sure, however, that they said nothing about its
being the strongest chain that could ever be made.
Fenris pretended to lie helpless for a time; then he struggled to his
feet, shook his mighty limbs, tossed his hideous head--and the chain
snapped, and fell into a hundred pieces! Then indeed there was
consternation among the gods; but Odin, the all-wise, had a sudden
helpful thought. Calling his swiftest messenger, he said:
"Go to the dwarfs in their underground smithy. Tell them to forge for us
a chain which cannot be broken; and do you make all haste, for the wolf
grows stronger each moment."
[Illustration: THE GODS WERE AMAZED]
Off hastened the messenger, and in less time than it takes to tell it he
was with the dwarfs, giving them the message from Odin. The little men
bustled about here and there, gathering up the materials of which the
chain was to be made; and when these were all collected and piled in a
heap, you might have looked and looked, and you would have seen nothing!
For this extraordinary chain was made of such things as the roots of
mountains, the sound of a cat's footsteps, a woman's beard, the spittle
of birds and the voice of fishes. When it was finished the messenger
hurried back to Asgard and displayed it proudly to the anxious gods. It
was as fine and soft as a silken string, but the gods knew the
workmanship of the dwarfs, and had no fear.
"It will be easy," they said, "to persuade Fenris to let himself be
bound with this."
But they were mistaken. The wolf looked at the soft, shining cord
suspiciously, and said:
"If that is what it looks to be, I shall gain no honor from breaking it;
if it has been made by magic, I shall never free myself."
"But we will free you," cried the gods. "This is but a game to test your
strength."
"Not you," growled the wolf. "I've lived here long enough to know that
if I don't look out for myself, no one else will look out for me."
"All right, if you are afraid," said Thor, with a shrug of his
shoulders. And the wolf replied, "To show that I am no more cowardly
than the gods, I will suffer myself to be bound if one of you will put
his hand into my mouth."
To refuse to do this was, as the gods knew, to admit that they had meant
trickery, and thus to make Fenris hate them worse than ever. But what
one of them was willing to sacrifice his hand? Thor was no coward, but
he knew that he was the chief defender of the gods, and he could not let
himself be maimed. However, they did not have to wait long, for Tyr came
forward, and thrust his hand into the wolf's mouth.
The wolf, his suspicions quieted, let himself be wrapped and bound with
the cord; and then, as he had done with the other chains, he stretched
himself--or tried to. For the magic rope but drew tighter and tighter
for all his struggling, until it cut into his very skin. Enraged, he
brought his great teeth sharply together, and bit off Tyr's hand at the
wrist. Then he howled and snapped and growled, until the gods, unwilling
to have their peace disturbed, thrust a sword into his mouth, so that
the hilt rested upon his lower jaw and the point pierced the roof of his
mouth. They next fastened the cord to a rock, and left the wolf to
writhe and struggle and shake the earth. So they were freed for a time
from their enemy, but at the cost of Tyr's hand.
THE DEATH OF BALDER
Adapted by Anna McCaleb
Of all the gods in Asgard, Balder was most beloved; for no one had ever
seen him frown, and his smile and the light of his eyes made all happy
who looked at him. And of all who dwelt in Asgard or ever gained
admission there, Loki was most hated. Clever as he was, he used his
cleverness to harass the other gods and to make them wretched, and often
he attempted real crimes against them. It was natural enough that Loki,
slighted and frowned upon, should hate Balder the beautiful, even though
Balder himself had never spoken an unkind word to him.
"I cannot bear the sight of his shining hair and happy eyes," muttered
Loki to himself. "If I could just blot them out of Asgard I should be
revenging myself upon the gods for their bitterness toward me, for harm
to Balder would hurt them more than harm to themselves."
One morning the assembled gods noticed that when Balder came among them
he looked less radiant than usual, and they gathered about him, begging
that he tell them what was wrong.
"It's nothing! It's nothing!" said Balder; and he forced a smile, but it
was not his old smile. It reminded them all of the faint light the sun
sheds when a thin cloud has drifted before it.
All day long, as they went about their tasks and their pleasures, the
gods were conscious of a feeling of gloom; and when they stopped and
questioned themselves, they found that the cause lay in the diminished
brightness of Balder's smile. When, the next morning, Balder again came
slowly to the great hall of the gods and showed a careworn face, Odin
and Frigga, his father and mother, drew him apart and implored him to
tell them the cause of his grief.
"My son," spoke Odin, "it is not well that this gloom should rest on all
the gods, and they not know the cause. Perhaps we, your father and your
mother, may help you."
At last Balder told them that for two nights he had had strange,
haunting dreams; what they were he could not remember clearly when he
awoke, but he could not shake off their depressing effect.
"I only know," he said, "that there was ever a thick cloud, which
drifted between me and the sun, and there were confused sounds of woe,
and travelings in dark, difficult places."
Now the gods knew well that their dreams were messages given them by the
Norns, or Fates, and not for a moment did Odin and Frigga venture to
laugh at Balder's fears. They soothed him, however, by promising to find
some means of warding off any danger that might be threatening him.
Somewhat cheered, Balder went home to his palace to comfort his
distressed wife, Nanna, while Odin and Frigga discussed measures for
their son's safety.
"I," said Odin, "shall ride to the domains of Hela, queen of the dead,
and question the great prophetess who lies buried there, as to what
Balder's dream may mean." And mounting Sleipnir, his eight-footed steed,
he rode away.
Across the rainbow bridge he passed, out of the light, and down, down,
down into the dark, hopeless realm of Hela. As he rode by the gate he
saw that preparations for a feast were being made within. A gloomy feast
it would have to be in those drear regions, but evidently it was being
spread for some honored guest, for rich tapestries and rings of gold
covered the couches, and vessels of gold graced the tables. Past the
gate rode Odin, to a grave without the wall, where for ages long the
greatest of all prophetesses had lain buried. Here, in this dark, chill
place, was to be spoken the fate of Balder, bringer of light.
Solemnly Odin chanted the awful charms that had power to raise the dead,
and king of gods as he was, he started when the grave opened, and the
prophetess, veiled in mist, rose before him.
"Who art thou?" she demanded in hollow, ghost-like tones. "And what
canst thou wish to know so weighty that only I, long dead, can answer
thee?"
Knowing that she would refuse to answer him should she know who he
really was, Odin concealed his identity, and simply asked for whom the
feast was preparing in Hela's realm.
"For Balder, light of gods and men," replied the prophetess.
"And who shall dare to strike him down?" cried Odin.
"By the hand of his blind brother Hoder shall he fall. And now let me
rest." And the prophetess sank again into her tomb, leaving Odin with a
heart more heavy and chill than the darkness which closed round him.
Meanwhile Frigga had busied herself with a plan which her mother love
had suggested. First to all the gods in Asgard, then through all the
earth did she go, saying, "Promise me--swear to me--that you will never
hurt Balder." Every bird, every beast, every creeping thing; all plants,
stones and metals; all diseases and poisons known to gods and men; fire,
water, earth, air--all things gladly took oath to do Balder no harm.
"For do not we," they cried to Frigga, "love him even as you do? And why
then should we harm him?"
Gladly Frigga took her way toward home, feeling certain that she had
saved Balder forever. As she was about to enter Odin's palace, Valhalla,
she noticed on a branch of an oak that grew there, a tiny, weak-looking
shrub. "That mistletoe is too young to promise, and too weak to do any
harm," said Frigga; and she passed it by.
All the gods rejoiced with her when she told of her success; even Odin
partially shook off his fears, as he told the younger gods and the
heroes who dwelt with him in his palace to go and seek enjoyment after
their period of gloom. To the great playground of the gods they
hastened, and there they invented a new game. Balder, smiling as of old,
took his stand in the midst, and all the others hurled at him weapons,
stones and sticks, and even hit at him with their battle-axes. They grew
very merry over this pastime, for do what they would, none of them could
harm Balder; the missiles either fell short, or dropped to his feet
harmless.
Loki, passing by, was at first amazed when he saw Balder being used as a
target; then, when he saw that Balder remained unhurt through all, he
became angry--he could not bear this proof of the fact that all things
loved Balder. Hastening away, he disguised himself as an old woman and
hobbled off to Fensalir, the mansion of Frigga.
"Do you know," said this old woman, entering the room where Frigga sat
spinning, "that the gods and heroes are playing a very dangerous game?
They are hurling all sorts of things at your son Balder, who stands in
their midst."
"That is not a dangerous game," replied Frigga, smiling serenely. "Last
year it might have been, but now all things have given me their solemn
oath not to harm Balder."
"Well, well, well," said the old woman, "isn't that wonderful? To think
that any being should be so much beloved that everything should promise
not to hurt him! You said EVERYTHING, did you not?"
"Yes," replied Frigga. "That is, it really amounts to everything. There
is one tiny parasite, the mistletoe, which grows on the Valhalla oak,
which I did not bother with."
Once out of sight of Frigga, Loki moved rapidly enough; and shortly he
appeared, in his own form, among the gods, who were still shouting with
joy over their game. In his hand he carried a dart; but who could have
guessed, to look at it, that it had been fashioned from the mistletoe on
the Valhalla oak?
Outside of the circle of the gods stood Hoder, Balder's blind brother,
and there was no smile on his face. Loki approached him and asked
craftily:
"Why do you not join in the game? Are you not afraid that Balder will
think you are jealous of his good fortune if you take no part in this
sport they have invented in his honor?"
[Illustration: HODER HURLED THE DART]
"Alas!" said poor Hoder, "I am left out of all the sports of the gods.
How can I, with my sightless eyes, tell where Balder is? And you see
that I have nothing in my hand. What, then, could I throw?"
"I have here a little dart that I will give you," replied Loki. "And
since you cannot direct your aim, I will guide your arm."
Joyfully Hoder thanked him, and when Loki indicated the direction in
which he was to throw, he hurled the dart with all his might.
Unswervingly flew the mistletoe dart, and instead of falling at Balder's
feet, it lodged in his heart, so that he fell dead on the grass.
Then, instead of the laughter which Hoder waited to hear, there went up
a shuddering wail of terror; and angry hands seized Hoder and angry
voices were in his ear.
"What have I done?" he pleaded. "I but wished to show honor to Balder as
the rest have done."
"And you have killed him!" they cried. "You shall die yourself."
"Peace! Peace!" said Heimdal. "Such a deed of violence must not stain
the home of the gods. Moreover, Hoder did it all unwittingly. It was
Loki who directed his aim, and we are all to blame that we allowed him
to set foot on our playground."
Bitter indeed was Hoder's grief, and he implored his heart-broken
mother, Frigga, that he might be allowed to take Balder's place in dark
Hela's realm.
"Not you alone," she replied, "but any of the gods, would willingly die
for Balder. But not in that way can he be brought back to Asgard. There
is one chance--speak to Hermod, fleetest of the gods; tell him to take
Odin's horse, Sleipnir, and ride to Hela's abode. Perchance, if he
entreat her, she may give Balder up." Hermod, at the word of the
despairing Hoder, mounted the eight-footed steed, and set off on the
perilous journey.
Meanwhile, the other gods prepared the funeral pyre for Balder,
determined that it should be worthy of the beloved and honored god.
Great pine trees were felled and piled upon the deck of Ringhorn,
Balder's ship; tapestry hangings, garlands of flowers and ornaments of
gold and silver were heaped upon the pyre.
And finally, in sad procession, came the gods, bearing Balder's body,
which they placed upon the flowers. His horse and his dogs were killed
and placed beside him, that they might be with him to serve him in the
underworld. Then one after one of the gods stepped forward and chanted
their farewells; but when Nanna's turn came, she was unable to speak.
Her heart broke, and her spirit fled to join that of her husband. The
gods could not sorrow for her death; they knew that the abode of the
dead would have less terrors for the loving pair if they could be
together there, so without tears they laid her beside her husband.
Last of all, Odin advanced and cast upon the pyre his treasured ring,
Draupnir, gift of the dwarfs, as an offering to his dead son. Then Thor,
with a touch of his hammer, which caused the lightning, set fire to the
pile, and the ship, with sails set, was launched.
In solemn silence the gods watched the ship float out upon the sea.
"And wreathed in smoke, the ship stood out to sea.
Soon with a roaring rose the mighty fire,
And the pile crackled; and between the logs
Sharp quivering tongues of flame shot out, and leapt,
Curling and darting, higher, till they lick'd
The summit of the pile, the dead, the mast,
And ate the shriveling sails; but still the ship
Drove on, ablaze above her hull with fire.
And the gods stood upon the beach and gazed,
And while they gazed, the sun went lurid down
Into the smoke-wrapt sea, and night came on.
Then the wind fell, with night, and there was calm;
But through the night they watched the burning ship
Still carried o'er the distant waters on,
Farther and farther, like an eye of fire.
And long, in the far dark, blazed Balder's pile;
But fainter, as the stars rose high, it flared;
The bodies were consumed, ash choked the pile.
And as, in a decaying winter fire,
A charr'd log, falling, makes a shower of sparks--
So with a shower of sparks the pile fell in,
Reddening the sea around; and all was dark."
[Footnote: The poetic quotations in this story are from
Matthew Arnold's Balder Dead.]
Then, when all was over, the gods went mournfully back to their homes,
there to await the return of Hermod. Their palaces were brightly
illuminated, but no lights shone from the windows of Breidablik,
Balder's palace; and as long as that was dark, the gods cared little for
the brilliance of their own dwellings.
Hermod, in the meantime, had journeyed across the rainbow bridge, and on
and on toward the north until he reached the Giall river, which runs
between the regions of Hela and the upper world. Well the guard of the
bridge knew, when she heard on the bridge the noise of the horse's feet,
that it was no shade who was crossing; but when Hermod told his errand,
he was allowed to go on. And now his way led over trackless, slippery
ice, on which scarce any other horse could have kept his footing; and
surely no other horse could have leapt, as did Sleipnir, the gate to
Hela's own realm. Once within, Hermod came rapidly into the presence of
the queen, and on his knees before her implored her to allow Balder to
return to the light and the upper air.
"'For Heaven was Balder born, the city of gods
And heroes, where they live in light and joy.
Thither restore him, for his place is there!'"
Hela remained unmoved by his pleadings; and what wonder? For she was
Loki's daughter, and knew by whose act Balder had been sent below.
Finally she said:
"Hermod, I shall try whether the protestations that all things lament
Balder are indeed true. Return to Asgard; and if, through all the earth,
all things, living and dead, weep for Balder, he shall return. But if
one thing in all the world refuses to shed tears, here he shall stay."
Cheered by this promise, Hermod turned to depart, but before he left he
talked with Balder and with Nanna, his wife. They told him that all
honor which could be paid to any one in the realms of the dead was paid
to them; that Balder was made the judge in disputes between the shades.
But despite that, the days were weary, hopeless; no joy was there,
nothing substantial--just days and nights of unvarying twilight, with
never a gleam of real brightness. Nor would Balder admit that there was
cause for rejoicing in the promise of Hela. "Well we know the family of
Loki. Were there not some trick, Hela would never have spoken that
word."
Nevertheless, it was with a heart lighter than at his coming that Hermod
set out on his return journey. And when he reached Asgard there was
rejoicing among the gods. For the first time since Balder's death, there
were the sounds of cheerful hurryings to and fro and of gods calling
each to each as they set out upon their tasks; for all the gods wanted a
part in the work of bringing Balder back to life.
In twos and threes they rode throughout all the world, and soon "all
that lived, and all without life, wept." Trees, stones, flowers, metals
joined willingly in grief for Balder the beautiful; and most of the gods
speedily returned in joy. But Hermod, as he rode, came to the mouth of a
dark cave where sat an old hag named Thok. Years long she had sat there,
and the gods knew her well, for she always cried out mockingly to all
who passed by; but Hermod could not know that to-day Loki had changed
forms with the old hag, and that it was really that enemy of the gods
who sat before him. Dismounting, he besought the old woman to weep for
Balder, as all things in heaven and earth had promised to do. But in a
shrill voice she cried:
"With dry tears will Thok weep for Balder. Let Hela keep her prey."
And as she fled, with harsh laughter, to the cave's depth, Hermod knew
that it was Loki who had this second time stolen life from Balder.
Sadly he rode back to Asgard, and in silent grief the gods heard his
tale; for they knew that brightness was gone forever from the abode of
the gods--that Balder the beautiful should return no more.
This story of Balder is one of those myths which were invented to
explain natural happenings. The ancient peoples, knowing nothing about
science, could not account for such things as the rising and setting of
the sun and the change from summer to winter; and they made up
explanations which in time grew into interesting stories.
Some students believe that in this story the death of Balder (the sun)
by the hand of Hoder (darkness) represents the going down of the sun at
each day's close.
Another explanation, and a more probable one, is that the death of
Balder represents the close of the short northern summer and the coming
on of the long winter. That is, the dreary winter, with its darkness, is
represented by Hoder, who had strength, but could not make use of it to
aid men or gods; who could, however, with his blind strength, slay
Balder, who stood for the blessed, life-giving qualities of the summer
sun.
Loki represented fire. He had in him elements of good, but because of
the fact that he had used his power often to harm, as does fire, instead
of to bless, he was feared and hated and avoided; and thus he became
jealous of Balder.
For a myth which the Greeks and Romans invented about the sun, see the
story of Phaethon, in this volume.
[Illustration: STRANGE OPAL LIGHTS FILTERED THROUGH THE WATER]
THE PUNISHMENT OF LOKI
Adapted by Anna McCaleb
After Balder's death the gods felt that they had little to make them
happy. Their thoughts dwelt always on their loss, or on their desire to
punish Loki; and in neither of these thoughts was there any joy, for to
the pure minds of the gods, the thought of violence could bring nothing
but pain.
One day the sea-god Aegir sent to the dwellers in Asgard an invitation
to a banquet in his sea caverns, and all accepted except Thor, who had
business that called him elsewhere. On the appointed morning they
appeared at Aegir's palace, and while at first they forced themselves to
smile and appear cheerful, in compliment to their host, they soon found
themselves, because of the novelty of all about them, becoming genuinely
interested. The palace was of coral, pink and white--rough on the
outside, but smooth and polished within; and the floors were strewn with
sand so fine and white that it looked like marble. Draperies of bright-
colored seaweed hung everywhere, and the gay sea flowers met their eyes
at every turn, while the dishes and cups in which the feast was served
were the most delicate pearl-tinted shells. Strange opal lights filtered
through the water and into the banqueting hall, and great whales and sea
snakes looked in through the windows on the gods as they sat at table.
All was cheerfulness and merriment, but suddenly the gods felt a chill
come over them, as if a wind from Hela's ice-bound realm had rushed
past. Turning, they saw Loki on the threshold. With a muttered excuse
for his lateness he slipped into his seat; and then, since none except
his host greeted him, and since the merry talk was not resumed, he
glanced about the table and said:
"Pretty manners are these! Does no one pledge me in wine? Does no one
have a word for me?"
Painfully the gods forced themselves to take up their conversation,
though all avoided talking directly to Loki, whose expression became
more lowering every moment. At length Odin turned to his host.
"This servant, Funfeng, is deft and skilful. Even in my palace I have
not his superior."
Aegir bowed. "Since the king of the gods is pleased with Funfeng,
Funfeng is no longer my servant, but the servant of Odin. He shall wait
upon the heroes in Valhalla."
With a cry of jealous rage Loki sprang to his feet. "Never!" he cried,
and he struck Funfeng so violently that he fell dead.
All the gods leaped up, and they drove Loki from the palace, commanding
him never to appear in their presence again; but scarcely had they
seated themselves to resume their interrupted feast, when the crafty god
again entered the room. Not waiting for them to speak, he began to
revile them. His words came in a rapid stream; he stopped not to draw
breath. Beginning with Odin, he attacked the gods in turn, mocking their
physical peculiarities, recounting every deed which they had done that
was not to their credit, shaming them because he had always been able to
elude them easily, and because only he could help them out of their
difficulties. Finally he came to Sif, Thor's golden-haired wife, whom
long before he had robbed of her tresses.
"As for Sif," he began, "I could tell a tale of her that--"
But he went no further, for a peal of thunder drowned his words, and a
blinding flash of lightning made him cover his eyes with his hands. The
gods sighed in relief, for Thor stood among them, his eyes shooting
fire.
"Already," he cried, "has Aegir's palace been stained with blood to-day.
I will not, therefore, kill you here. But if ever you appear before my
eyes again, I shall smite you; and if ever you dare to speak Sif's name,
I shall hear it though I am in the uttermost parts of the earth, and I
shall have vengeance."
"Well spoken, son Thor," said Odin. "But I too have something to say to
Loki. We shall permit you to go unharmed to-day, but if you care for
your life, hide yourself. We shall seek you; and the gods have keen
eyes. And if we find you out, you shall die."
Sullen, frightened, Loki withdrew. He wandered about long in the most
barren, desolate parts of the earth, cursing the gods and hating
himself. At length he found a spot which he felt sure would be hidden
even from Odin's eyes. It was in a steep, rocky valley, where nothing
grew, and where no sound ever came except the weird noise of the wind as
it swept through the narrow passes, and the chatter of a mountain stream
as it leapt down the rocks.
Here, in this solitary place, Loki built himself a hut of piled-up
rocks. Four walls had the hut, and in each wall was a door, for Loki
wished to be able to see the gods, from whatever direction they
approached, and to make his escape. He had always been a famous
fisherman, and now the fish which he took from the stream formed his
only food.
Sometimes he changed himself into a salmon and floated about in the
quieter places of the stream. He never talked with the other fish who
lived in the stream, but somehow he felt less lonely with those living
things about him than he did in his solitary hut on the mountain side.
One day (for Loki was a very clever workman) he began to fashion
something, the like of which there had not been in the world before.
This was a net for fishing; and so interested did Loki become in
twisting and knotting the cords, that he almost forgot to keep watch for
his enemies, the gods. The net was almost finished, when one afternoon
Loki raised his head and saw through one of his doors three gods
approaching--Odin, Thor and Heimdal, wisest of the gods. With a curse he
tossed his net upon the fire--"THEY shall never have it!"--and slipped
from his hut. Splash! And there was a huge salmon deep down in the
stream, while Loki was nowhere to be seen.
The gods were greatly disappointed when they entered the hut; they had
been so sure that at last they had found the hiding place of the wicked
one, and it seemed they had missed him again. However, they knew his
power of disguising himself, and they were not utterly discouraged.
"He has not been gone long," said Heimdal, "for look--the fire still
burns. And what is this upon the fire?" And he drew out the partly
burned fish net.
"What can it be?" asked Odin. "It is too coarse for any sort of covering
for the body, and not strong enough to use in entangling an enemy."
"Wait!" said Heimdal. "I have it--I have it! It's a net for fishing--
Loki was always a fisherman. See," he exclaimed excitedly, "you take it
SO," thrusting one end into Thor's hand, "and you drag it through the
water SO. The water runs through and the fish are held. O, clever Loki!"
"But why," asked Thor, "should he burn it up, when he has spent so much
work upon it?"
"I don't know," said Heimdal musingly, "unless--unless. Where could he
hide except in that stream, and how could he conceal himself there
without changing himself to a fish? Mark my words. Loki is there, and he
feared we might catch him with his own net."
"That," said Odin, "would be a form of justice for which one would
scarcely dare hope. I fear the net is too badly burned for use."
"Not so," replied Heimdal. "Here is more flax, and we can easily repair
the damage the fire has done."
So the three gods sat upon the floor of the hut and mended the burned
net, keeping an eye always on the stream, that Loki might not make his
escape. And when the net was ready they went forth, and with it dragged
the stream. Not a fish did they catch, for Loki had frightened the real
fish away, and he himself was hiding between two big stones, so that the
net passed over him.
"The thing is too light," said Thor. "It does not touch the bottom."
"That we can soon change," replied Heimdal, and he set about fastening
stones to the lower edge of the net.
Again they began to drag the river, and this time Loki feared that he
could not escape. But just as the net almost touched him, he gave a
mighty leap and sprang clear of the net. The silvery flash, the sudden
splash, startled the gods, so that they almost dropped the net; but it
told them what they wanted to know--Loki WAS in the stream. Turning,
they dragged the net down the stream, driving Loki nearer and nearer to
the sheer drop of the waterfall, down which he dared not plunge.
Desperate, he made another leap, and again he almost escaped; but Thor's
quick eyes saw him, Thor's strong, iron-gloved hand gripped him. The
great salmon struggled, but Thor held it fast by the tail, and finally
flung it out upon the bank.
[Illustration: THOR'S HAND GRIPPED HIM]
Loki, within the fish, vowed to himself that he would not return to his
own shape; but the fish's body could not live long out of the water, and
soon he found himself growing weak and faint. At length, therefore, he
was obliged to assume his own form, and there he stood, handsome, but
evil-looking, before the waiting gods.
"It hurts us," said Odin, "that we should be forced to treat one of our
own kind in this way. Perhaps even now--tell us that you do regret your
past wickedness, that you are sorry for the trouble you have caused the
gods, that you grieve sometimes for Balder's death."
"I grieve," said Loki, "only that I have caused so little trouble among
the gods; I regret only that the days for pitting my cleverness against
your stupidity are at an end--for I ask for no mercy. As for Balder's
death, it has been my chief cause for rejoicing as I have dwelt here in
this solitary place."
Shocked by his hardness, the gods led him away to the punishment which
they had planned for him. The other gods met them by the way, and troops
of dwarfs and elves and human beings and animals sprang up on every
side, and followed them. And in the hearts of all these followers there
was joy, for Loki had never done them anything but harm; and besides,
had he not slain Balder, the beautiful, the beloved?
But in the hearts of the gods there was pain, for Loki was of their own
number, and far back in the beginnings of time, before he had become
wicked, he had been their great pride, by reason of his cleverness.
They passed, a noisy procession, to a dark, underground cavern, a damp,
slimy place, where snakes looked out from their holes, and toads sat
upon the stones. Here were three sharp-pointed rocks, which Thor pierced
with holes; and to these rocks they bound the wretched Loki with chains
of adamant.
"Here he shall stay," said Odin, "until the last great day shall come
for gods and men."
A giantess, whose son Loki had killed, came with a great serpent, which
she fastened directly over Loki's head; and from the serpent's mouth
dripped poison, which fell, drop by drop, upon Loki's upturned face. His
wife, Sigyn, could not bear to see her husband in such agony, so she
took her stand beside him, cup in hand, and caught the poison as it
fell. There through the ages on ages she stood, relieving Loki's pain,
and trying to cheer him, for whom there was no cheer. When the cup was
filled and she had to go to the cavern's mouth to empty it, then the
venom fell on Loki's face, and in his terrible pain he struggled and
writhed until the earth shook. And all the people, startled at their
work or from their sleep, cried, "Loki's earthquake!"
SEVEN TIMES ONE
By Jean Ingelow
There's no dew left on the daisies and clover,
There's no rain left in heaven;
I've said my "seven times" over and over--
Seven times one are seven.
I am so old, so old I can write a letter;
My birthday lessons are done;
The lambs play always, they know no better;
They are only one times one.
O moon! in the night I have seen you sailing
And shining so round and low;
You were bright! ah, bright! but your light is failing--
You are nothing now but a bow.
You moon, have you done something wrong in heaven,
That God has hidden your face?
I hope if you have you will soon be forgiven,
And shine again in your place.
O velvet bee, you're a dusty fellow,
You've powdered your legs with gold!
O brave marsh marybuds, rich and yellow,
Give me your money to hold!
O columbine, open your folded wrapper,
Where two twin turtledoves dwell!
O cuckoopint, toll me the purple clapper
That hangs in your clear green bell!
And show me your nest with the young ones in it;
I will not steal them away;
I am old! you may trust me, linnet, linnet--
I am seven times one to-day.
SHUFFLE-SHOON AND AMBER-LOCKS
[Footnote: From 'Love Songs of Childhood'. Copyright, 1894,
by Eugene Field, published by Charles Scribner's Sons.]
By Eugene Field
Shuffle-Shoon and Amber-Locks
Sit together, building blocks;
Shuffle-Shoon is old and gray,
Amber-Locks a little child.
But together at their play
Age and Youth are reconciled,
And with sympathetic glee
Build their castles fair to see.
"When I grow to be a man,"
(So the wee one's prattle ran),
"I shall build a castle so--
With a gateway broad and grand;
Here a pretty vine shall grow,
There a soldier guard shall stand;
And the tower shall be so high,
Folks will wonder, by and by!"
Shuffle-Shoon quoth: "Yes, I know;
Thus I builded long ago!
Here a gate and there a wall,
Here a window, there a door;
Here a steeple wondrous tall
Riseth ever more and more!
But the years have leveled low
What I builded long ago!"
So they gossip at their play,
Heedless of the fleeting day;
One speaks of the Long Ago
Where his dead hopes buried lie;
One with chubby cheeks aglow
Prattleth of the By-and-By;
Side by side, they build their blocks--
Shuffle-Shoon and Amber-Locks.
AFTERWHILE
[Footnote: From the poem to Afterwhiles by James
Whitcomb Riley. Used by special permission of the
publishers--The Bobbs-Merrill Company.]
By James Whitcomb Riley
Afterwhile we have in view
The old home to journey to:
Where the Mother is, and where
Her sweet welcome waits us there.
How we'll click the latch that locks
In the pinks and hollyhocks,
And leap up the path once more
Where she waits us at the door;
How we'll greet the dear old smile
And the warm tears--afterwhile.
WINDY NIGHTS
By ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON
Whenever the moon and stars are set,
Whenever the wind is high,
All night long in the dark and wet,
A man goes riding by.
Late in the night when the fires are out,
Why does he gallop and gallop about?
Whenever the trees are crying aloud,
And ships are tossed at sea,
By, on the highway, low and loud,
By at the gallop goes he.
By at the gallop he goes, and then
By he comes back at the gallop again.
THE SNOW QUEEN
By Hans Christian Andersen
THE FIRST STORY
WHICH TREATS OF THE MIRROR AND FRAGMENTS
Look you, now we're going to begin. When we are at the end of the story
we shall know more than we do now, for he was a bad goblin. He was one
of the very worst, for he was a demon. One day he was in very good
spirits, for he had made a mirror which had this peculiarity, that
everything good and beautiful that was reflected in it shrank together
into almost nothing, but that whatever was worthless and looked ugly
became prominent and looked worse than ever. The most lovely landscapes
seen in this mirror looked like boiled spinach, and the best people
became hideous, or stood on their heads and had no bodies; their faces
were so distorted as to be unrecognizable, and a single freckle was
shown spread out over nose and mouth. That was very amusing, the demon
said. When good, pious thoughts passed through any person's mind these
were again shown in the mirror, so that the demon chuckled at his
artistic invention.
Those who visited the goblin school--for he kept a goblin school--
declared everywhere that a wonder had been wrought. For now, they
asserted, one could see, for the first time, how the world and the
people in it really looked. Now they wanted to fly up to heaven, to
sneer and scoff at the angels themselves. The higher they flew with the
mirror, the more it grinned; they could scarcely hold it fast. They flew
higher and higher, and then the mirror trembled so terribly amid its
grinning that it fell down out of their hands to the earth, where it was
shattered into a hundred million million and more fragments.
And now this mirror occasioned much more unhappiness than before; for
some of the fragments were scarcely as large as a barleycorn, and these
flew about in the world, and whenever they flew into any one's eye they
stuck there, and that person saw everything wrongly, or had only eyes
for the bad side of a thing, for every little fragment of the mirror had
retained the power which the whole glass possessed. A few persons even
got a fragment of the mirror into their hearts, and that was terrible
indeed, for such a heart became a block of ice. A few fragments of the
mirror were so large that they were used as window panes, but it was a
bad thing to look at one's friends through these panes: other pieces
were made into spectacles, and then it went badly when people put on
these spectacles to see rightly, and to be just; and then the demon
laughed till his paunch shook, for it tickled him so. But without, some
little fragments of glass still floated about in the air--and now we
shall hear
THE SECOND STORY
A LITTLE BOY AND A LITTLE GIRL
In the great town, where there are many houses, and so many people that
there is not room enough for every one to have a little garden, and
where consequently most persons are compelled to be content with flowers
in pots, were two poor children who possessed a garden somewhat larger
than a flowerpot. They were not brother and sister, but they loved each
other quite as much as if they had been. Their parents lived just
opposite each other in two garrets, there where the roof of one
neighbor's house joined that of another. And where the water pipe ran
between the two houses was a little window; one had only to step across
the pipe to get from one window to the other.
The parents of each child had a great box, in which grew kitchen herbs
that they used, and a little rosebush; there was one in each box, and
they grew famously. Now, it occurred to the parents to place the boxes
across the pipe, so that they reached from one window to another, and
looked quite like two embankments of flowers. Pea plants hung down over
the boxes, and the rosebushes shot forth long twigs, which clustered
round the windows and bent down toward each other; it was almost like a
triumphal arch of flowers and leaves. As the boxes were very high, and
the children knew that they might not creep upon them, they often
obtained permission to step out upon the roof behind the boxes, and to
sit upon their little stools under the roses, and there they could play
capitally.
In the winter time there was an end of this amusement. The windows were
sometimes quite frozen over. But then they warmed copper shillings on
the stove, and held the warm coins against the frozen pane; and this
made a capital peep-hole, so round! so round! and behind it gleamed a
pretty mild eye at each window; and these eyes belonged to the little
boy and the little girl. His name was Kay and the little girl's was
Gerda.
In the summer they could get to one another at one bound; but in the
winter they had to go down and up the long staircase, while the snow was
pelting without.
"Those are the white bees swarming," said the old grandmother.
"Have they a queen bee?" asked the little boy. For he knew that there is
one among the real bees.
"Yes, they have one," replied grandmamma. "She always flies where they
swarm thickest. She is the largest of them all, and never remains quiet
upon the earth; she flies up again into the black cloud. Many a midnight
she is flying through the streets of the town, and looks in at the
windows, and then they freeze in such a strange way, and look like
flowers."
"Yes, I've seen that!" cried both the children; and now they knew that
it was true.
[Illustration: THE SNOWFLAKE AT LAST BECAME A MAIDEN]
"Can the Snow Queen come in here?" asked the little girl.
"Only let her come," cried the boy; "I'll set her upon the warm stove,
and then she'll melt."
But grandmother smoothed his hair, and told some other tales. In the
evening, when little Kay was at home and half undressed, he clambered
upon the chair by the window, and looked through the little hole. A few
flakes of snow were falling outside, and one of them, the largest of
them all, remained lying on the edge of one of the flower boxes.
The snowflake grew larger and larger, and at last became a maiden
clothed in the finest white gauze, put together of millions of starry
flakes. She was beautiful and delicate, but of ice--of shining,
glittering ice. Yet she was alive; her eyes flashed like two clear
stars, but there was no peace or rest in them. She nodded toward the
window, and beckoned with her hand. The little boy was frightened, and
sprang down from the chair; then it seemed as if a great bird flew by
outside, in front of the window.
Next day there was a clear frost, and then the spring came; the sun
shone, the green sprouted forth, the swallows built nests, the windows
were opened, and the little children again sat in their garden high up
in the roof, over all the floors.
How splendidly the roses bloomed this summer! The little girl had
learned a psalm, in which mention was made of roses; and, in speaking of
roses, she thought of her own; and she sang it to the little boy, and he
sang, too:
"The roses will fade and pass away,
But we the Christ-child shall see one day."
And the little ones held each other by the hand, kissed the roses,
looked at God's bright sunshine, and spoke to it, as if the Christ-child
were there. What splendid summer days those were! How beautiful it was
without, among the fresh rosebushes!
Kay and Gerda sat and looked at the picture book of beasts and birds.
Then it was, while the clock was just striking twelve on the church
tower, that Kay said:
"Oh! something struck my heart and pricked me in the eye." The little
girl fell upon his neck; he blinked his eyes. No, there was nothing at
all to be seen.
"I think it is gone," said he; but it was not gone. It was just one of
those glass fragments which sprang from the mirror--the magic mirror
that we remember well, the ugly glass that made every great and good
thing which was mirrored in it to seem small and mean, but in which the
mean and the wicked things were brought out in relief, and every fault
was noticeable at once. Poor little Kay had also received a splinter
just in his heart, and that will now soon become like a lump of ice. It
did not hurt him now, but the splinter was still there.
"Why do you cry?" he asked. "You look ugly like that. There's nothing
the matter with me. Oh, fie!" he suddenly exclaimed, "that rose is worm-
eaten, and this one is quite crooked. After all, they're ugly roses.
They're like the box in they stand."
And then he kicked the box with his foot, and tore both the roses off.
"Kay, what are you about?" cried the little girl.
And when he noticed her fright he tore off another rose, and then sprang
in at his own window, away from pretty little Gerda.
When she afterward came with her picture book, he said it was only fit
for babies in arms; and when his grandmother told stories he always came
in with a BUT; and when he could manage it, he would get behind her, put
on a pair of spectacles, and talk just as she did; he could do that very
cleverly, and the people laughed at him. Soon he could mimic the speech
and the gait of everybody in the street. Everything that was peculiar or
ugly about people, Kay would imitate; and every one said, "That boy must
certainly have a remarkable genius." But it was the glass that struck
deep in his heart; so it happened that he even teased little Gerda, who
loved him with all her heart.
His games now became quite different from what they were before; they
became quite sensible. One winter's day when it snowed he came out with
a great burning glass, held up the blue tail of his coat, and let the
snowflakes fall upon it.
"Now look at the glass, Gerda," said he.
And every flake of snow was magnified, and looked like a splendid
flower, or a star with ten points--it was beautiful to behold.
"See how clever that is," said Kay. "That's much more interesting than
real flowers; and there's not a single fault in it--they're quite
regular until they begin to melt."
Soon after, Kay came in thick gloves, and with his sledge upon his back.
He called up to Gerda. "I've got leave to go into the great square,
where the other boys play;" and he was gone.
In the great square the boldest among the boys often tied their sledges
to the country people's carts, and thus rode with them a good way. They
went capitally. When they were in the midst of their playing there came
a great sledge. It was painted quite white, and in it sat somebody
wrapped in a rough, white fur, with a white, rough cap on his head. The
sledge drove twice round the square, and Kay bound his little sledge to
it, and so he drove on with it. It went faster and faster, straight into
the next street. The man who drove turned round and nodded in a familiar
way to Kay; it was as if they knew one another. Each time when Kay
wanted to cast loose his little sledge, the stranger nodded again, and
then Kay remained where he was, and thus they drove out at the town
gate. Then the snow began to fall so rapidly that the boy could not see
a hand's breadth before him; but still he drove on. Now he hastily
dropped the cord, so as to get loose from the great sledge; but that was
no use, for his sledge was fast bound to the other, and they went on
like the wind. Then he called out quite loudly, but nobody heard him;
and the snow beat down, and the sledge flew onward. Every now and then
it gave a jump, and they seemed to be flying over hedges and ditches.
The boy was quite frightened. He wanted to say his prayer, but could
remember nothing but the multiplication table.
The snowflakes became larger and larger; at last they looked like white
fowls. All at once they sprang aside, the great sledge stopped, and the
person who had driven it rose up. The fur and the cap were made
altogether of ice. It was A LADY, tall and slender, and brilliantly
white: it was the Snow Queen!
"We have driven well!" said she. "But why do you tremble with cold?
Creep into my fur."
And she seated him beside her in her own sledge, and wrapped the fur
round him, and he felt as if he sank into a snowdrift.
"Are you still cold?" asked she, and then she kissed him on the
forehead.
Oh, that was colder than ice; it went quite through to his heart, half
of which was already a lump of ice. He felt as if he were going to die,
but only for a moment; for then he seemed quite well, and he did not
notice the cold all about him.
"My sledge! Don't forget my sledge."
That was the first thing he thought of; and it was bound fast to one of
the white chickens, and this chicken flew behind him with the sledge
upon its back. The Snow Queen kissed Kay again, and then he had
forgotten little Gerda, his grandmother, and all at home.
"Now you shall have no more kisses," said she, "for if you did I should
kiss you to death."
Kay looked at her. She was so beautiful, he could not imagine a more
sensible or lovely face; she did not appear to him to be made of ice
now, as she did when she sat at the window and beckoned to him. In his
eyes she was perfect; he did not feel at all afraid. He told her that he
could do mental arithmetic as far as fractions; that he knew the number
of square miles and the number of inhabitants in the country. And she
always smiled, and then it seemed to him that what he knew was not
enough. And he looked up into the wide sky, and she flew with him high
up upon the black cloud, and the storm blew and whistled; it seemed as
though the wind sang old songs. They flew over woods and lakes, over sea
and land; below them the cold wind roared, the wolves howled, the snow
crackled; over them flew the black, screaming crows; but above all the
moon shone bright and clear, and Kay looked at the long, long winter
night; by day he slept at the feet of the Queen.
THE THIRD STORY
THE FLOWER GARDEN OF THE WOMAN WHO COULD CONJURE
But how did it fare with little Gerda when Kay did not return? What
could have become of him? No one knew, no one could give information.
The boys only told that they had seen him bind his sledge to another
very large one, which had driven along the street and out at the town
gate. Nobody knew what had become of him; many tears were shed, and
little Gerda especially wept long and bitterly. Then she said he was
dead--he had been drowned in the river which flowed close by their
school. Oh, those were very dark, long winter days! But now spring came,
with warmer sunshine.
"Kay is dead and gone," said little Gerda.
"I don't believe it," said the Sunshine.
"He is dead and gone," said she to the Sparrows. "We don't believe it,"
they replied; and at last little Gerda did not believe it herself.
"I will put on my new red shoes," she said one morning--"those that Kay
has never seen; and then I will go down to the river, and ask for him."
It was still very early; she kissed the old grandmother, who was still
asleep, put on her red shoes, and went quite alone out of the town gate
toward the river.
"Is it true that you have taken my little playmate from me? I will give
you my red shoes if you will give him back to me."
And it seemed to her as if the waves nodded quite strangely; and then
she took her red shoes, which she liked best of anything she possessed,
and threw them both into the river; but they fell close to the shore,
and the little wavelets carried them back to her, to the land. It seemed
as if the river would not take from her the dearest things she possessed
because he had not her little Kay. But she thought she had not thrown
the shoes far enough out, so she crept into a boat that lay among the
reeds, went to the other end of the boat, and threw the shoes from
thence into the water; but the boat was not bound fast, and at the
movement she made it glided away from the shore. She noticed it, and
hurried to get back; but before she reached the other end, the boat was
a yard from the bank, and it drifted away faster than before.
Then little Gerda was very much frightened, and began to cry; but no one
heard her except the Sparrows, and they could not carry her to land; but
they flew along the shore, and sang, as if to console her, "Here we are!
here we are!" The boat drove on with the stream, and little Gerda sat
quite still, with only her stockings on her feet; her little red shoes
floated along behind her, but they could not come up to the boat, for
that made more way.
It was very pretty on both shores. There were beautiful flowers, old
trees, and slopes with sheep and cows; but not ONE person was to be
seen.
"Perhaps the river will carry me to little Kay," thought Gerda.
And then she became more cheerful, and rose up, and for many hours she
watched the charming green banks; then she came to a great cherry
orchard, in which stood a little house with remarkable blue and red
windows; it had a thatched roof, and without stood two wooden soldiers,
who presented arms to those who sailed past.
[Illustration: THEY FLEW OVER WOODS AND LAKES]
Gerda called to them, for she thought they were alive, but of course
they did not answer. She came quite close to them. The river carried the
boat toward the shore.
Gerda called still louder, and then there came out of the house an old
woman leaning on a crutch; she had on a great velvet hat, painted over
with the finest flowers.
"You poor little child!" said the old woman. "How did you manage to come
on the great rolling river, and to float thus far out into the world?"
And then the old woman went quite into the water, seized the boat with
her crutch stick, drew it to land, and lifted little Gerda out. And
Gerda was glad to be on dry land again, though she felt a little afraid
of the strange old woman.
"Come and tell me who you are, and how you came here," said the old
lady. And Gerda told her everything; and the old woman shook her head,
and said, "Hem! hem!" And when Gerda had told everything, and asked if
she had not seen little Kay, the woman said that he had not yet come by,
but that he probably would soon come. Gerda was not to be sorrowful, but
to look at the flowers and taste the cherries, for they were better than
any picture book, for each one of them could tell a story. Then she took
Gerda by the hand and led her into the little house, and locked the
door.
The windows were very high, and the panes were red, blue and yellow; the
daylight shone in a remarkable way, with different colors. On the table
stood the finest cherries, and Gerda ate as many of them as she liked,
for she had leave to do so. While she was eating them, the old lady
combed Gerda's hair with a golden comb, and the yellow hair hung softly
round the friendly little face, which looked as blooming as a rose.
"I have long wished for such a dear little girl as you," said the old
lady. "Now you shall see how well we shall live with one another."
And as the ancient dame combed her hair, Gerda forgot her adopted
brother Kay more and more; for this old woman could conjure, but she was
not a wicked witch. She only practiced a little magic for her own
amusement, and wanted to keep little Gerda. Therefore she went into the
garden, stretched out her crutch toward all the rosebushes, and,
beautiful as they were, they all sank into the earth, and one could not
tell where they had stood. The old woman was afraid that, if the little
girl saw roses, she would think of her own, and remember little Kay, and
run away.
Now Gerda was led out into the flower garden. What fragrance was there,
and what loveliness! Every conceivable flower was there in full bloom;
there were some for every season; no picture book could be gayer and
prettier. Gerda jumped high for joy, and played till the sun went down
behind the high cherry trees; then she was put into a lovely bed, with
red silk pillows stuffed with blue violets, and she slept there, and
dreamed as gloriously as a queen on her wedding day.
Next day she played again with the flowers in the warm sunshine; and
thus many days went by. Gerda knew every flower; but, many as there were
of them, it still seemed to her as if one were wanting, but which one
she did not know. One day she sat looking at the old lady's hat with the
painted flowers, and the prettiest of them all was a rose. The old lady
had forgotten to efface it from her hat when she caused the others to
disappear. But so it always is when one does not keep one's wits about
one.
"What, are there no roses here?" cried Gerda.
And she went among the beds, and searched and searched, but there was
not one to be found. Then she sat down and wept; her tears fell just
upon a spot where a rosebush lay buried, and when the warm tears
moistened the earth, the tree at once sprouted up as blooming as when it
had sunk; and Gerda embraced it, kissed the roses, and thought of the
beautiful roses at home, and also of little Kay.
"Oh, how I have been detained!" said the little girl. "I wanted to seek
for little Kay! Do you not know where he is?" she asked the roses. "Do
you think he is dead?"
"He is not dead," the roses answered. "We have been in the ground. All
the dead people are there, but Kay is not there."
"Thank you," said little Gerda, and she went to the other flowers,
looked into their cups, and asked, "Do you know where little Kay is?"
But every flower stood in the sun thinking only of her own story, or
fancy tale. Gerda heard many, many, of them; but not one knew anything
of Kay.
And what did the Tiger Lily say?
"Do you hear the drum, 'Rub-dub'? There are only two notes, always 'rub-
dub'! Hear the mourning song of the women; hear the call of the priests.
The Hindoo widow stands in her long red mantle on the funeral pile; the
flames rise up around her and her dead husband; but the Hindoo woman is
thinking of the living one here in the circle, of him whose eyes burn
hotter than flames, whose fiery glances have burned into her soul more
ardently than the flames themselves, which are soon to burn her body to
ashes. Can the flame of the heart die in the flame of the funeral pile?"
"I don't understand that at all!" said little Gerda.
"That's my story," said the Lily.
What says the Convolvulus?
"Over the narrow road looms an old knightly castle; thickly the ivy
grows over the crumbling red walls, leaf by leaf up to the balcony,
where stands a beautiful girl; she bends over the balustrade and glances
up the road. No rose on its branch is fresher than she; no apple blossom
wafted onward by the wind floats more lightly along. How her costly
silks rustle! 'Comes he not yet?'"
"Is it Kay whom you mean?" asked little Gerda.
"I'm only speaking of a story--my dream," replied the Convolvulus.
What said the little Snowdrop?
"Between the trees a long board hangs by ropes; that is a swing. Two
pretty little girls, with clothes white as snow and long green silk
ribbons on their hats, are sitting upon it, swinging. Their brother, who
is greater than they, stands in the swing, and has slung his arm round
the rope to hold himself, for in one hand he has a little saucer, and in
the other a clay pipe. He is blowing bubbles. The swing flies, and the
bubbles rise with beautiful, changing colors; the last still hangs from
the pipe bowl, swaying in the wind. The swing flies on; the little black
dog, light as the bubbles, stands up on his hind legs, and wants to be
taken into the swing: it flies on, and the dog falls, barks, and grows
angry, for he is teased, and the bubble bursts. A swinging board and a
bursting bubble--that is my song."
"It may be very pretty, what you're telling, but you speak it so
mournfully, and you don't mention little Kay at all."
[Illustration: "HE IS BLOWING BUBBLES"]
What do the Hyacinths say?
"There were three beautiful sisters, transparent and delicate. The dress
of one was red, that of the second blue, and that of the third quite
white; hand in hand they danced by the calm lake in the bright
moonlight. They were not elves; they were human beings. It was so sweet
and fragrant there! The girls disappeared in the forest, and the sweet
fragrance became stronger: three coffins, with three beautiful maidens
lying in them, glided from the wood-thicket across the lake; the
glowworms flew gleaming about them like little hovering lights. Are the
dancing girls sleeping, or are they dead? The flower scent says they are
dead, and the evening bell tolls their knell."
"You make me quite sorrowful," said little Gerda. "You scent so
strongly, I cannot help thinking of the dead maidens. Ah! is little Kay
really dead? The Roses have been down in the earth, and they say he is
not."
"Kling! klang!" tolled the Hyacinth bells. "We are not tolling for
little Kay--we don't know him; we only sing our song, the only one we
know."
And Gerda went to the Buttercup, gleaming forth from the green leaves.
"You are a little bright sun," said Gerda. "Tell me, if you know, where
I may find my companion."
And the Buttercup shone so gaily, and looked back at Gerda. What song
might the Buttercup sing? It was not about Kay.
"In a little courtyard the clear sun shone warm on the first day of
spring. The sunbeams glided down the white wall of the neighboring
house; close by grew the first yellow flower, glancing like gold in the
bright sun's ray. The old grandmother sat out of doors in her chair; her
granddaughter, a poor, handsome maid-servant, was coming home for a
short visit. She kissed her grandmother. There was gold, heart's gold,
in that blessed kiss--gold in the mouth, gold in the south, gold in the
morning hour. See, that's my little story," said the Buttercup.
"My poor old grandmother!" sighed Gerda. "Yes, she is surely longing for
me and grieving for me, just as she did for little Kay. But I shall soon
go home and take Kay with me. There is no use of my asking the flowers;
they know only their own song, and give me no information." And then she
tied her little frock round her, that she might run the faster; but the
Jonquil struck against her leg as she sprang over it, and she stopped to
look at the tall yellow flower, and asked, "Do you, perhaps, know
anything of little Kay?"
And she bent quite down to the flower, and what did it say?
"I can see myself! I can see myself!" said the Jonquil. "Oh! oh! how I
smell! Up in the little room in the gable stands a little dancing girl.
She stands sometimes on one foot, sometimes on both; she seems to tread
on all the world. She's nothing but an ocular delusion: she pours water
out of a teapot on a bit of stuff--it is her bodice. 'Cleanliness is a
fine thing,' she says; her white frock hangs on a hook; it has been
washed in the teapot too, and dried on the roof. She puts it on and ties
her saffron handkerchief round her neck, and the dress looks all the
whiter. Point your toes! look how she seems to stand on a stalk. I can
see myself! I can see myself!"
"I don't care at all about that," said Gerda. "You need not tell me
that."
And then she ran to the end of the garden. The door was locked, but she
pressed against the rusty lock, and it broke off, the door sprang open,
and little Gerda ran with naked feet out into the wide world. She looked
back three times, but no one was there to pursue her. At last she could
run no longer, and seated herself on a great stone; and when she looked
round the summer was over--it was late in autumn. One could not notice
that in the beautiful garden, where there was always sunshine, and where
the flowers of every season always bloomed.
"Alas! how I have loitered!" said little Gerda. "Autumn has come. I may
not rest again."
And she rose up to go on. Oh! how sore and tired her little feet were.
All around it looked cold and bleak; the long willow leaves were quite
yellow, and the dew fell down like water; one leaf after another
dropped; only the sloe-thorn still bore fruit, but the sloes were sour,
and set the teeth on edge. Oh! how gray and gloomy it looked--the wide
world!
THE FOURTH STORY
THE PRINCE WHO MIGHT HAVE BEEN KAY
Gerda was compelled to rest again; then there came hopping across the
snow, just opposite the spot where she was sitting, a great Crow. This
Crow stopped a long time to look at her, nodding its head, and then it
said, "Krah! krah! Good day! good day!" It could not pronounce better,
but it felt friendly toward the little girl, and asked where she was
going all alone in the wide world. The word "alone" Gerda understood
very well, and felt how much it expressed; and she told the Crow the
story of her whole life and fortunes, and asked if it had not seen Kay.
[Illustration: THE CROW STOPPED TO LOOK]
And the Crow nodded very gravely, and said:
"That may be! that may be!"
"What? do you think so?" cried the little girl, and nearly pressed the
Crow to death, she kissed it so.
"Gently, gently!" said the Crow. "I think I know. I believe it may be
little Kay; but he has certainly forgotten you, with the princess."
"Does he live with a princess?" asked Gerda.
"Yes; listen," said the Crow. "But it's so difficult for me to speak
your language. If you know the Crow's language, I can tell it much
better."
"No, I never learned it," said Gerda; "but my grandmother understood it,
and could speak the language, too. I only wish I had learned it."
"That doesn't matter," said the Crow. "But it will go badly."
And then the Crow told what it knew.
"In the country in which we now are lives a princess who is quite
wonderfully clever; but then she has read all the newspapers in the
world, and has forgotten them again, she is so clever. Lately she was
sitting on the throne--and that's not so pleasant as is generally
supposed--and she began to sing a song, and it was just this: 'Why
should I not marry now?' You see, there was something in that," said the
Crow. "And so she wanted to marry, but she wished for a husband who
could answer when he was spoken to, not one who only stood and looked
handsome, for that was wearisome. And so she had all her maids of honor
summoned, and when they heard her intention they were very glad. 'I like
that,' said they; 'I thought the very same thing the other day.' You may
be sure that every word I am telling you is true," added the Crow. "I
have a tame sweetheart who goes about freely in the castle, and she told
me everything."
Of course the sweetheart was a crow, for one crow always finds out
another, and birds of a feather flock together.
"Newspapers were published directly, with a border of hearts and the
princess's initials. One could read in them that every young man who was
good-looking might come to the castle and speak with the princess, and
him who spoke so that one could hear he was at home there, and who spoke
best, the princess, would choose for her husband. Yes, yes," said the
Crow, "you may believe me. It's as true as that I sit here. Young men
came flocking in; there was a great crowding and much running to and
fro, but no one succeeded the first or second day. They could all speak
well when they were out in the streets, but when they entered at the
palace gates, and saw the guards standing in their silver lace, and went
up the staircase, and saw the lackeys in their golden liveries, and the
great lighted halls, they became confused. And when they stood before
the throne itself, on which the princess sat, they could do nothing but
repeat the last word she had spoken, and she did not care to hear her
own words again. It was just as if the people in there had taken some
narcotic and fallen asleep till they got into the street again, for not
till then were they able to speak. There stood a whole row of them, from
the town gate to the palace gate. I went out myself to see it," said the
Crow. "They were hungry and thirsty, but in the palace they did not
receive so much as a glass of lukewarm water. A few of the wisest had
brought bread and butter with them, but they would not share with their
neighbors, for they thought, 'Let him look hungry, and the princess
won't have him.'"
"But Kay, little Kay?" asked Gerda. "When did he come? Was he among the
crowd?"
"Wait! wait! We're just coming to him. It was on the third day that
there came a little personage, without horse or carriage, walking quite
merrily up to the castle. His eyes sparkled like yours; he had fine long
hair, but his clothes were shabby."
"That was Kay!" cried Gerda, rejoicing. "Oh, then, I have found him!"
And she clapped her hands.
"He had a little knapsack on his back," observed the Crow.
"No, that must certainly have been his sledge," said Gerda, "for he went
away with a sledge."
"That may well be," said the Crow, "for I did not look at it very
closely. But this much I know from my tame sweetheart, that when he
passed under the palace gate and saw the life guards in silver, and
mounted the staircase and saw the lackeys in gold, he was not in the
least embarrassed. He nodded, and said to them, 'It must be tedious work
standing on the stairs--I'd rather go in.' The halls shone full of
light; privy councilors and Excellencies walked about with bare feet,
and carried golden vessels; any one might have become solemn; and his
boots creaked most noisily, but he was not embarrassed."
"That is certainly Kay!" cried Gerda. "He had new boots on; I've heard
them creak in grandmother's room."
"Yes, certainly they creaked," resumed the Crow. "And he went boldly in
to the princess herself, who sat on a pearl that was as big as a
spinning wheel, and all the maids of honor with their attendants, and
all the cavaliers with their followers, and the followers of their
followers, who themselves kept a page apiece, were standing round; and
the nearer they stood to the door, the prouder they looked. The
followers' followers' pages could hardly be looked at, so proudly did
they stand in the doorway!"
"That must be terrible!" faltered little Gerda. "And yet Kay won the
princess?"
"If I had not been a crow, I would have married her myself,
notwithstanding that I am engaged. They say he spoke as well as I can
when I speak the crows' language; I heard that from my tame sweetheart.
He was merry and agreeable; he had not come to marry, only to hear the
wisdom of the princess; and he approved of her, and she of him."
"Yes, certainly that was Kay!" said Gerda. "He was so clever; he could
do mental arithmetic up to fractions. Oh! won't you lead me to the
castle, too?"
"That's easily said," replied the Crow. "But how are we to manage it?
I'll talk it over with my tame sweetheart: she can probably advise us;
for this I must tell you--a little girl like yourself will never get
leave to go completely in."
"Yes, I shall get leave," said Gerda. "When Kay hears that I'm there
he'll come out directly, and bring me in."
"Wait for me yonder at the grating," said the Crow; and it wagged its
head and flew away.
It was late in the evening when the Crow came back.
"Rax! rax!" it said. "I'm to greet you kindly from my sweetheart, and
here's a little loaf for you. She took it from the kitchen. There's
plenty of bread there, and you must be hungry. You can't possibly get
into the palace, for you are barefooted, and the guards in silver and
the lackeys in gold would not allow it. But don't cry; you shall go up.
My sweetheart knows a little back staircase that leads up to the
bedroom, and she knows where she can get the key."
And they went into the garden, into the great avenue, where one leaf was
falling down after another; and when the lights were extinguished in the
palace, one after the other, the Crow led Gerda to a back door, which
stood ajar.
Oh, how Gerda's heart beat with fear and longing! It was just as if she
had been going to do something wicked; and yet she only wanted to know
whether it was little Kay. Yes, it must be he. She thought so deeply of
his clear eyes and his long hair; she could fancy she saw how he smiled,
as he had smiled at home when they sat among the roses. He would
certainly be glad to see her; to hear what a long distance she had come
for his sake; to know how sorry they had all been at home when he did
not come back. Oh, what a fear and what a joy that was!
Now they were on the staircase. A little lamp was burning upon a
cupboard, and in the middle of the floor stood the tame Crow, turning
her head on every side and looking at Gerda, who courtesied as her
grandmother had taught her to do.
"My betrothed has spoken to me very favorably of you, my little lady,"
said the tame Crow. "Your history, as it may be called, is very moving.
Will you take the lamp? then I will precede you. We will go the straight
way, and then we shall meet nobody."
"I feel as if some one were coming after us," said Gerda, as something
rushed by her. It seemed like a shadow on the wall; horses with flying
manes and thin legs, hunters, and ladies and gentlemen on horseback.
"These are only dreams," said the Crow; "they are coming to carry the
high masters' thoughts out hunting. That's all the better, for you may
look at them the more closely, in bed. But I hope, when you are taken
into favor and get promotion, you will show a grateful heart."
"Of that we may be sure!" observed the Crow from the wood.
Now they came into the first hall; it was hung with rose-colored satin,
and artificial flowers were worked on the walls. And here the dreams
again came flitting by them, but they moved so quickly that Gerda could
not see the high-born lords and ladies. Each hall was more splendid than
the last; yes, one could almost become bewildered! Now they were in the
bedchamber. Here the ceiling was like a great palm tree with leaves of
glass, of costly glass, and in the middle of the floor two beds hung on
a thick stalk of gold, and each of them looked like a lily. One of them
was white, and in that lay the princess; the other was red, and in that
Gerda was to seek little Kay. She bent one of the red leaves aside, and
then she saw a little brown neck. Oh, that was Kay! She called out his
name quite loud, and held the lamp toward him. The dreams rushed into
the room again on horseback--he awoke, turned his head, and--it was not
little Kay!
The prince was only like him in the neck, but he was young and good-
looking; and the princess looked up, blinking, from the white lily, and
asked who was there. Then little Gerda wept, and told her history, and
all that the Crows had done for her.
"You poor child!" said the prince and princess.
And they praised the Crows, and said that they were not angry with them
at all, but the Crows were not to do it again. However, they should be
rewarded.
"Will you fly out free," asked the princess, "or will you have fixed
positions as court Crows, with the right to everything that is left in
the kitchen?"
And the two Crows bowed, and begged for fixed positions, for they
thought of their old age, and said, "It is so good to have some
provisions for one's old days," as they called them.
And the prince got up out of his bed, and let Gerda sleep in it, and he
could not do more than that. She folded her little hands and thought,
"How good men and animals are!" and then she shut her eyes and went
quietly to sleep. All the dreams came flying in again, looking like
angels, and they drew a little sledge, on which Kay sat nodding; but all
this was only a dream, and therefore it was gone again as soon as she
awoke.
The next day she was clothed from head to foot in velvet; and an offer
was made to her that she should stay in the castle and enjoy pleasant
times, but she only begged for a little carriage, with a horse to draw
it, and a pair of little boots; then she would drive out into the world
and seek for Kay.
And she received not only boots, but a muff likewise, and was neatly
dressed; and when she was ready to depart, a coach, made of pure gold,
stopped before the door. Upon it shone like a star the coat of arms of
the prince and princess; coachmen, footmen, and outriders--for there
were outriders, too--sat on horseback, with gold crowns on their heads.
The prince and princess themselves helped her into the carriage, and
wished her all good fortune. The forest Crow, who was now married,
accompanied her the first three miles; he sat by Gerda's side, for he
could not bear riding backward; the other Crow stood in the doorway,
flapping her wings; she did not go with them, for she suffered from
headache that had come on since she had obtained a fixed position and
was allowed to eat too much. The coach was lined with sugar biscuits,
and in the seat there were gingerbread, nuts, and fruit.
"Farewell, farewell!" cried the prince and princess; and little Gerda
wept, and the Crow wept.
So they went on for the first three miles, and then the Crow said good-
bye, and that was the heaviest parting of all. The Crow flew up on a
tree, and beat his black wings as long as he could see the coach, which
glittered like the bright sunshine.
THE FIFTH STORY
THE LITTLE ROBBER GIRL
They drove on through the thick forest, but the coach gleamed like a
torch. It dazzled the robbers' eyes, and they could not bear it.
"That is gold! that is gold!" cried they; and they rushed forward,
seized the horses, killed the postilions, the coachmen, and the footmen,
and then pulled little Gerda out of the carriage.
"She is fat--she is pretty--she is fed with nut kernels!" said the old
robber woman, who had a very long matted beard and shaggy eyebrows that
hung down over her eyes. "She's as good as a little pet lamb; how I
shall relish her!"
And she drew out her shining knife, that gleamed in a horrible way.
"Oh!" screamed the old woman at the same moment: for her own daughter,
who hung at her back, bit her ear in a very naughty and spiteful manner.
"You ugly brat!" screamed the old woman; and she had not time to kill
Gerda.
"She shall play with me!" said the little robber girl. "She shall give
me her muff and her pretty dress, and sleep with me in my bed!"
And then the girl gave another bite, so that the woman jumped high up,
and turned right round, and all the robbers laughed, and said:
"Look how she dances with her calf."
"I want to go into the carriage," said the little robber girl,
And she would have her own way, for she was spoiled and very obstinate;
and she and Gerda sat in the carriage, and drove over stock and stone
deep into the forest. The little robber girl was as big as Gerda, but
stronger and more broad-shouldered, and she had a brown skin; her eyes
were quite black, and they looked almost mournful. She clasped little
Gerda round the waist, and said:
"They shall not kill you as long as I am not angry with you. I suppose
you are a princess?"
"No," replied Gerda. And she told all that had happened to her, and how
fond she was of little Kay.
The robber girl looked at her seriously, nodded slightly, and said:
"They shall not kill you, even if I do get angry with you, for then I
will do it myself."
And then she dried Gerda's eyes, and put her two hands into the
beautiful muff that was so soft and warm.
Now the coach stopped, and they were in the courtyard of a robber
castle. It had burst from the top to the ground; ravens and crows flew
out of the great holes, and big bulldogs--each of which looked as if he
could devour a man--jumped high up, but did not bark, for that was
forbidden.
In the great, old, smoky hall, a bright fire burned upon the stone
floor; the smoke passed along under the ceiling, and had to seek an exit
for itself. A great cauldron of soup was boiling and hares and rabbits
were roasting on the spit.
"You shall sleep to-night with me and all my little animals," said the
robber girl.
They had something to eat and drink, and then went to a corner, where
straw and carpets were spread out. Above these sat on laths and perches
more than a hundred pigeons, and all seemed asleep, but they turned a
little when the two little girls came.
"All these belong to me," said the little robber girl; and she quickly
seized one of the nearest, held it by the feet, and shook it so that it
flapped its wings. "Kiss it!" she cried, and beat it in Gerda's face.
"There sit the wood rascals," she continued, pointing to a number of
laths that had been nailed in front of a hole in the wall, "Those are
wood rascals, those two; they fly away directly if one does not keep
them well locked up. And here's my old sweetheart 'Ba.'" Arid she pulled
out by the horn a Reindeer, that was tied up, and had a polished copper
ring round its neck. "We're obliged to keep him tight, too, or he'd run
away from us. Every evening I tickle his neck with a sharp knife, and
he's badly frightened at that."
And the little girl drew a long knife from a cleft in the wall, and let
it glide over the Reindeer's neck; the poor creature kicked out its
legs, and the little robber girl laughed, and drew Gerda into bed with
her.
"Do you keep the knife while you're asleep?" asked Gerda, and looked at
it in a frightened way.
"I always sleep with my knife," replied the robber girl. "One does not
know what may happen. But now tell me again what you told me just now
about little Kay, and why you came out into the wide world."
And Gerda told it again from the beginning; and the Wood Pigeons cooed
above them in their cage, and the other pigeons slept. The little robber
girl put her arm round Gerda's neck, held her knife in the other hand,
and slept so that one could hear her; but Gerda could not close her eyes
at all--she did not know whether she was to live or die.
The robbers sat round the fire, sang and drank, and the old robber woman
tumbled about. It was quite terrible for a little girl to behold. Then
the Wood Pigeons said: "Coo! coo! we have seen little Kay. A white owl
was carrying his sledge; he sat in the Snow Queen's carriage, which
drove close by the forest as we lay in our nests. She blew upon us young
pigeons, and all died except us two. Coo! coo!"
"What are you saying there?" asked Gerda. "Whither was the Snow Queen
traveling? Do you know anything about it?"
"She was probably journeying to Lapland, for there they have always ice
and snow. Ask the Reindeer that is tied to the cord."
[Illustration: THE REINDEER RAN AS FAST AS IT COULD GO]
"There is ice and snow yonder, and it is glorious and fine," said the
Reindeer. "There one may run about free in great glittering plains.
There the Snow Queen has her summer tent; but her strong castle is up
toward the North Pole, on the island that's called Spitzbergen."
"O Kay, little Kay!" cried Gerda.
"You must lie still," exclaimed the robber girl, "or I shall thrust my
knife into your body."
In the morning Gerda told her all that the Wood Pigeons had said, and
the robber girl looked quite serious, and nodded her head and said,
"That's all the same, that's all the same!"
"Do you know where Lapland is?" she asked the Reindeer.
"Who should know better than I?" the creature replied, and its eyes
sparkled in its head. "I was born and bred there; I ran about there in
the snow fields."
"Listen!" said the robber girl to Gerda. "You see all our men have gone
away. Only mother is here still, and she'll stay; but toward noon she
drinks out of the big bottle, and then she sleeps for a little while;
then I'll do something for you."
Then she sprang out of bed, and clasped her mother round the neck and
pulled her beard, crying:
"Good morning, my own old nanny goat." And her mother filliped her nose
till it was red and blue; and it was all done for pure love.
When the mother had drunk out of her bottle and had gone to sleep upon
it, the robber girl went to the Reindeer, and said:
"I should like very much to tickle you a few times more with the knife,
for you are very funny then; but it's all the same. I'll loosen your
cord and help you out, so that you may run to Lapland; but you must use
your legs well, and carry this little girl to the palace of the Snow
Queen, where her playfellow is. You've heard what she told me, for she
spoke loud enough, and you were listening."
The Reindeer sprang up high for joy. The robber girl lifted little Gerda
on its back, and had the forethought to tie her fast, and even to give
her her own little cushion as a saddle.
"There are your fur boots for you," she said, "for it's growing cold;
but I shall keep the muff, for that's so very pretty. Still, you shall
not be cold, for all that; here's my mother's big muffles--they'll just
reach up to your elbows. Now you look just like my ugly mother."
And Gerda wept for joy.
"I can't bear to see you whimper," said the little robber girl. "No, you
just ought to look very glad. And here are two loaves and a ham for you;
now you won't be hungry."
These were tied on the Reindeer's back. The little robber girl opened
the door, coaxed in all the big dogs, and then cut the rope with her
sharp knife, and said to the Reindeer:
"Now run, but take good care of the little girl."
And Gerda stretched out her hands with the big muffles toward the little
robber girl, and said, "Farewell."
And the Reindeer ran over stock and stone, away through the great
forest, over marshes and steppes, as fast as it could go. The wolves
howled, and the ravens croaked. "Hiss! hiss!" sounded through the air.
It seemed as if the sky were flashing fire.
"Those are my old Northern Lights," said the Reindeer. "Look how they
glow!" And then it ran on faster than ever, day and night.
THE SIXTH STORY
THE LAPLAND WOMAN AND THE FINLAND WOMAN
At a little hut they stopped. It was very humble; the roof sloped down
almost to the ground, and the door was so low that the family had to
creep on their stomachs when they wanted to go in or out. No one was in
the house but an old Lapland woman, cooking fish by the light of a
train-oil lamp; and the Reindeer told Gerda's whole history, but it
related its own first, for this seemed to the Reindeer the more
important of the two. Gerda was so exhausted by the cold that she could
not speak.
"Oh, you poor things," said the Lapland woman; "you've a long way to run
yet! You must go more than a hundred miles into Finmark, for the Snow
Queen is there, staying in the country, and burning Bengal Lights every
evening. I'll write a few words on a dried cod, for I have no paper, and
I'll give you that as a letter to the Finland woman; she can give you
better information than I."
And when Gerda had been warmed and refreshed with food and drink, the
Lapland woman wrote a few words on a dried codfish, and telling Gerda to
take care of these, tied her again on the Reindeer, and the Reindeer
sprang away. Flash! flash! The whole night long the most beautiful blue
Northern Lights were burning.
And then they got to Finmark, and knocked at the chimney of the Finland
woman; for she had not even a hut.
There was such a heat in the chimney that the woman herself went about
almost naked. She at once loosened little Gerda's dress and took off the
child's muffles and boots; otherwise it would have been too hot for her
to bear. Then she laid a piece of ice on the Reindeer's head, and read
what was written on the codfish; she read it three times, and when she
knew it by heart, she popped the fish into the soup-cauldron, for it was
eatable, and she never wasted anything.
Now the Reindeer first told his own story, and then little Gerda's; and
the Finland woman blinked with her clever eyes, but said nothing.
"You are very clever," said the Reindeer. "I know you can tie all the
winds of the world together with a bit of twine; if the seaman unties
one knot, he has a good wind; if he loosens the second, it blows hard;
but if he unties the third and fourth, there comes such a tempest that
the forests are thrown down. Won't you give the little girl a draught,
so that she may get twelve men's power, and overcome the Snow Queen?"
"Twelve men's power!" repeated the Finland woman. "Great use that would
be!"
And she went to a bed and brought out a great rolled-up fur, and
unrolled it; wonderful characters were written upon it, and the Finland
woman read until the perspiration ran down her forehead.
But the Reindeer again begged so hard for little Gerda, and Gerda looked
at the Finland woman with such beseeching eyes, full of tears, that she
began to blink again with her own, and drew the Reindeer into a corner,
and whispered to him, while she laid fresh ice upon his head.
"Little Kay is certainly at the Snow Queen's, and finds everything there
to his taste and thinks it is the best place in the world; but that is
because he has a splinter of glass in his eye, and a little fragment in
his heart; but these must be got out, or he will never be a human being
again, and the Snow Queen will keep her power over him."
"But cannot you give something to little Gerda, so as to give her power
over all this?"
"I can give her no greater power than she possesses already; don't you
see how great that is? Don't you see how men and animals are obliged to
serve her, and how she gets on so well in the world, with her naked
feet? She cannot receive her power from us; it consists in this--that
she is a dear, innocent child. If she herself cannot penetrate to the
Snow Queen and get the glass out of little Kay, we can be of no use! Two
miles from here the Snow Queen's garden begins; you can carry the little
girl thither; set her down by the great bush that stands with its red
berries in the snow. Don't stand gossiping, but make haste, and get back
here!"
And then the Finland woman lifted little Gerda on the Reindeer, which
ran as fast as it could.
"Oh, I haven't my boots! I haven't my muffles!" cried Gerda.
She soon noticed that in the cutting cold; but the Reindeer dared not
stop. It ran till it came to the bush with the red berries; there it set
Gerda down, and kissed her on the mouth, and great big tears ran down
the creature's cheeks; and then it ran back, as fast as it could. There
stood poor Gerda without shoes, without gloves, in the midst of the
terrible, cold Finmark.
She ran forward as fast as possible; then came a whole regiment of
snowflakes; but they did not fall down from the sky, for that was quite
bright, and shone with the Northern Lights: the snowflakes ran along the
ground, and the nearer they came, the larger they grew. Gerda still
remembered how large and beautiful the snowflakes had appeared when she
had looked at them through the burning glass. But here they were
certainly far larger and much more terrible--they were alive. They were
advance posts of the Snow Queen, and had the strangest shapes. A few
looked like ugly great porcupines; others like knots formed of snakes,
which stretched forth their heads; and others like little fat bears,
whose hair stood up on end; all were brilliantly white, all were living
snowflakes.
Then little Gerda said her prayer; and the cold was so great that she
could see her own breath, which went forth out of her mouth like smoke.
The breath became thicker and thicker, and formed itself into little
angels, who grew and grew whenever they touched the earth; and all had
helmets on their heads, and shields and spears in their hands. Their
number increased, and when Gerda had finished her prayer a whole legion
stood round about her, and struck with their spears at the terrible
snowflakes, so that these were shattered into a thousand pieces; and
little Gerda could go forward afresh, with good courage. The angels
stroked her hands and feet, and then she felt less how cold it was, and
hastened on to the Snow Queen's palace.
But now we must see what Kay was doing. He was not thinking of little
Gerda, and least of all that she was standing in front of the palace.
[Illustration: THE SNOW QUEEN'S CASTLE]
THE SEVENTH STORY
OF THE SNOW QUEEN'S CASTLE, AND WHAT HAPPENED THERE AT LAST
The walls of the palace were formed of the drifting snow, and the
windows and doors of the cutting winds. There were more than a hundred
halls, all blown together by the snow; the greatest of these extended
for several miles; the strong Northern Lights illuminated them all, and
how great and empty, how icily cold and shining they all were! Never was
merriment there--not even a little bear's ball, at which the storm could
have played the music, while the bears walked about on their hind legs
and showed off their pretty manners; never any little sport of mouth-
slapping or bars-touch; never any little coffee gossip among the young
lady white foxes. Empty, vast, and cold were the halls of the Snow
Queen. The Northern Lights flamed so brightly that one could count them
where they stood highest and lowest. In the midst of this immense empty
snow hall was a frozen lake, which had burst into a thousand pieces; but
each piece was like the rest, so that it was a perfect work of art; and
in the middle of the lake sat the Snow Queen, when she was at home, and
then she said that she sat in the Mirror of Reason, and that this was
the only one, and the best in the world.
Little Kay was quite blue with cold--indeed, almost black! but he did
not notice it, for she had kissed the cold shudderings away from him,
and his heart was like a lump of ice. He dragged a few sharp, flat
pieces of ice to and fro, joining them together in all kinds of ways,
for he wanted to achieve something with them. It was just like when we
have little tablets of wood, and lay them together to form figures--what
we call the Chinese game. Kay also went and laid figures, and, indeed,
very artistic ones. That was the icy game of Reason. In his eyes these
figures were very remarkable and of the highest importance; that was
because of the fragment of glass sticking in his eye. He laid out the
figures so that they formed a word--but he could never manage to lay
down the word as he wished to have it--the word eternity. The Snow Queen
had said:
"If you can find out this figure, you shall be your own master, and I
will give you the whole world and a pair of new skates."
But he could not.
"Now I'll hasten away to the warm lands," said the Snow Queen. "I will
go and look into the black spots." These were the volcanoes, Etna and
Vesuvius, as they are called. "I shall whiten them a little! That's
necessary; that will do the grapes and lemons good."
And the Snow Queen flew away, and Kay sat quite alone in the great icy
hall that was miles in extent, and looked at his pieces of ice, and
thought so deeply that cracks were heard inside him; one would have
thought that he was frozen.
Then it happened that little Gerda stepped through the great gate into
the wide hall. Here reigned cutting winds, but she prayed a prayer, and
the winds lay down as if they would have gone to sleep; and she stepped
into the great, empty, cold halls, and beheld Kay; she knew him, and
flew to him, and embraced him, and held him fast, and called out:
"Kay, dear little Kay! I have found you!"
But he sat quite still, stiff and cold. Then little Gerda wept hot
tears, that fell upon his breast; they penetrated into his heart, they
thawed the lump of ice, and consumed the little piece of glass in it. He
looked at her, and she sang:
"The roses will fade and pass away,
But we the Christ-child shall see one day."
Then Kay burst into tears; he wept so that the splinter of glass came
out of his eye. Now he recognized her, and cried rejoicingly:
"Gerda, dear Gerda! where have you been all this time? And where have I
been?" And he looked all around him. "How cold it is here! How large and
void!"
And he clung to Gerda, and she laughed and wept for joy. It was so
glorious that even the pieces of ice round about danced for joy; and
when they were tired and lay down, they formed themselves into just the
letters of which the Snow Queen had said that if he found them out he
should be his own master, and she would give him the whole world and a
new pair of skates.
And Gerda kissed his cheeks, and they became blooming; she kissed his
eyes, and they shone like her own; she kissed his hands and feet, and he
then became well and merry. The Snow Queen might now come home; his word
of release stood written in shining characters of ice.
And they took one another by the hand, and wandered forth from the great
palace of ice. They spoke of the grandmother and of the roses on the
roof; and where they went the winds rested and the sun burst forth; and
when they came to the bush with the red berries, the Reindeer was
standing there waiting; it had brought another young Reindeer, which
gave the children warm milk, and kissed them on the mouth. Then they
carried Kay and Gerda, first to the Finnish woman, where they warmed
themselves thoroughly in the hot room, and received instructions for
their journey home; and then to the Lapland woman, who had made them new
clothes and put their sledge in order.
The Reindeer and the young one sprang at their side, and followed them
as far as the boundary of the country. There the first green sprouted
forth, and there they took leave of the two Reindeer and the Lapland
woman. "Farewell!" said all. And the first little birds began to
twitter, the forest was decked with green buds, and out of it, on a
beautiful horse (which Gerda knew, for it was the same that had drawn
her golden coach) a young girl came riding, with a shining red cap on
her head and a pair of pistols in the holsters. This was the little
robber girl, who had grown tired of staying at home, and wished to go
first to the north, and if that did not suit her, to some other region.
She knew Gerda at once, and Gerda knew her too; and it was a right merry
meeting.
"You are a fine fellow to gad about!" she said to little Kay. "I should
like to know if you deserve that one should run to the end of the world
after you?"
But Gerda patted her cheeks, and asked after the prince and princess.
"They've gone to foreign countries," said the robber girl.
"But the Crow?" said Gerda.
"The Crow is dead," answered the other. "The tame one has become a
widow, and goes about with an end of black worsted thread round her leg.
She complains most lamentably, but it's all talk. But now tell me how
you have fared, and how you caught him."
And Gerda and Kay told their story.
"Snipp-snapp-snurre-purre-basellurre!" said the robber girl.
And she took them both by the hand, and promised that if she ever came
through their town, she would come up and pay them a visit. And then she
rode away into the wide world.
But Gerda and Kay went hand in hand, and as they went it became
beautiful spring, with green and with flowers. The church bells sounded,
and they recognized the high steeples and the great town; it was the one
in which they lived, and they went to the grandmother's door, and up the
stairs, and into the room, where everything remained in its usual place.
The big clock was going "Tick! tack!" and the hands were turning; but as
they went through the rooms they noticed that they had become grown-up
people. The roses out on the roof-gutter were blooming in at the open
window, and there stood the children's chairs, and Kay and Gerda sat
upon the chairs, and held each other by the hand. They had forgotten the
cold, empty splendor at the Snow Queen's like a heavy dream. The
grandmother was sitting in God's bright sunshine, and read aloud out of
the Bible, "Except ye become as little children, ye shall in no wise
enter into the kingdom of God."
And Kay and Gerda looked into each other's eyes, and all at once they
understood the old song:
"The roses will fade and pass away,
But we the Christ-child shall see one day."
There they both sat, grown up, and yet children--children in heart; and
it was summer--warm, delightful summer.
HOW TO REMEMBER THE STORY
When we read a good long story like The Snow Queen, we enjoy it and
think we should like to remember it. If it is really good we ought to
remember it, not only because of its excellence, but, in the case of an
old story, because we so often find allusions to it in our other
reading. The best way to fix a story in mind is to make an outline of
the incidents, or plot. Then we can see the whole thing almost at a
glance, and so remembrance is made easy.
A good outline of The Snow Queen would appear something like this:
I. The Goblin's Mirror. (Enlarges evil; distorts and diminishes good.)
1. The Mirror is broken.
II. Kay and Gerda.
1. The little rose garden.
2. Pieces of the mirror find their way into Kay's eye and heart.
3. The Snow Queen.
a. Finds Kay.
b. Carries him away.
c. Makes him forget Gerda.
III. Gerda's Search for Kay.
1. Carried away by the river.
2. Rescued by the old witch.
IV. In the Flower garden.
1. The rose reminds Gerda of Kay.
2. Gerda questions the flowers.
a. The Tiger Lily.
b. The Convolvulus.
c. The Snowdrop.
d. The Hyacinth.
e. The Buttercup.
f. The Jonquil.
V. Gerda Continues Her Search in Autumn.
1. Gerda meets the Crow and follows him.
a. The princess's castle,
b. The prince is not Kay.
c. Gerda in rich clothes continues her search in a carriage.
VI. Gerda meets the Robbers.
1. The old woman claims Gerda.
2. The robber girl fancies Gerda.
3. The Wood Pigeons tell about Kay.
4. The Reindeer carries Gerda on her search.
VII. Gerda's Journey on the Reindeer.
1. The Lapland woman,
a. Cares for Gerda.
b. Sends message on a codfish.
2. The Finland woman.
a. Cares for Gerda.
b. Tells what has happened to Kay.
c. Tells what ails Kay and says Kay may be saved by the power of
innocent girlhood.
VIII. Kay's Rescue.
1. At the Snow Queen's palace.
a. Kay cannot write eternity.
b. The Snow Queen leaves for Italy.
c. Gerda finds Kay.
d. Her tears melt his icy heart.
e. Her song brings tears that clear his eyes.
f. Kay knows Gerda.
g. Pieces of ice spell the word eternity.
h. Gerda's kisses restore Kay to warmth and health.
2. The return journey.
a. The reindeer.
b. The Finland woman.
c. The Lapland woman.
d. The prince and princess.
e. The robber girl.
3. Gerda and Kay at home.
A GOOD LESSON TO LEARN
There is little use in reading if we do not get from it something that
makes us wiser, better or nobler, or that gives us an inspiration to
work harder and make more of ourselves. I think the author of The Snow
Queen meant that we should get something more than a half-hour's
enjoyment out of his beautiful story.
He makes us like little Kay and his sweet friend Gerda, and then saddens
us with Kay's misfortunes. We do not like to see him become
crossgrained, mean in disposition and stony hearted.
Then we learn to admire the faithfulness and courage and bravery of
Gerda, and follow her to the Snow Queen's palace, afraid every moment
she will not find Kay.
When she does find him, it is her tears of sympathy that melt his icy
heart, her sweet faith in the Christ-child that clears his eyes, and her
love that brings him back to life.
Of course this is all a fairy story; but children and all the race of
grownups, even, may learn that it is only by innocence, sympathy and
love that the wickedness in the world can be overcome.
THE CHIMERA
By Nathaniel Hawthorne
Once, in the old, old times (for all the strange things which I tell you
about happened long before anybody can remember), a fountain gushed out
of a hillside in the marvelous land of Greece. And, for aught I know,
after so many thousand years it is still gushing out of the very
selfsame spot. At any rate, there was the pleasant fountain welling
freshly forth and sparkling adown the hillside in the golden sunset when
a handsome young man named Bellerophon drew near its margin. In his hand
he held a bridle studded with brilliant gems and adorned with a golden
bit. Seeing an old man and another of middle age and a little boy near
the fountain, and likewise a maiden who was dipping up some of the water
in a pitcher, he paused and begged that he might refresh himself with a
draught.
"This is very delicious water," he said to the maiden as he rinsed and
filled her pitcher after drinking out of it. "Will you be kind enough to
tell me whether the fountain has any name?"
"Yes, it is called the Fountain of Pirene," answered the maiden; and
then she added, "My grandmother has told me that this clear fountain was
once a beautiful woman; and when her son was killed by the arrows of the
huntress Diana, she melted all away into tears. And so the water which
you find so cool and sweet is the sorrow of that poor mother's heart!"
"I should not have dreamed," observed the young stranger, "that so clear
a wellspring, with its gush and gurgle and its cheery dance out of the
shade into the sunlight, had so much as one tear-drop in its bosom. And,
this, then, is Pirene? I thank you, pretty maiden, for telling me its
name. I have come from a far-away country to find this very spot."
A middle-aged country fellow (he had driven his cow to drink out of the
spring) stared hard at young Bellerophon and at the handsome bridle
which he carried in his hand.
"The watercourses must be getting low, friend, in your part of the
world," remarked he, "if you come so far only to find the Fountain of
Pirene. But pray, have you lost a horse? I see you carry the bridle in
your hand; and a very pretty one it is, with that double row of bright
stones upon it. If the horse was as fine as the bridle, you are much to
be pitied for losing him."
"I have lost no horse," said Bellerophon with a smile, "but I happen to
be seeking a very famous one, which, as wise people have informed me,
must be found hereabouts if anywhere. Do you know whether the winged
horse Pegasus still haunts the Fountain of Pirene, as he used to do?"
But then the country fellow laughed.
Some of you, my little friends, have probably heard that this Pegasus
was a snow-white steed with beautiful silvery wings, who spent most of
his time on the summit of Mount Helicon. He was as wild and as swift and
as buoyant in his flight through the air as any eagle that ever soared
into the clouds. There was nothing else like him in the world. He had no
mate, he had never been backed or bridled by a master, and for many a
long year he led a solitary and a happy life.
Oh, how fine a thing it is to be a winged horse! Sleeping at night, as
he did, on a lofty mountain top, and passing the greater part of the day
in the air, Pegasus seemed hardly to be a creature of the earth.
Whenever he was seen up very high above people's heads, with the
sunshine on his silvery wings, you would have thought that he belonged
to the sky, and that, skimming a little too low, he had got astray among
our mists and vapors and was seeking his way back again. It was very
pretty to behold him plunge into the fleecy bosom of a bright cloud and
be lost in it for a moment or two, and then break forth from the other
side. Or in a sullen rainstorm, when there was a gray pavement of clouds
over the whole sky, it would sometimes happen that the winged horse
descended right through it, and the glad light of the upper region would
gleam after him. In another instant, it is true, both Pegasus and the
pleasant light would be gone away together. But any one that was
fortunate enough to see this wondrous spectacle felt cheerful the whole
day afterward, and as much longer as the storm lasted.
In the summer time and in the most beautiful of weather Pegasus often
alighted on the solid earth, and, closing his silvery wings, would
gallop over hill and dale for pastime as fleetly as the wind. Oftener
than in any other place he had been seen near the Fountain of Pirene,
drinking the delicious water or rolling himself upon the soft grass of
the margin. Sometimes, too (but Pegasus was very dainty in his food), he
would crop a few of the clover-blossoms that happened to be sweetest. To
the Fountain of Pirene, therefore, people's great-grandfathers had been
in the habit of going (as long as they were youthful and retained their
faith in winged horses) in hopes of getting a glimpse at the beautiful
Pegasus. But of late years he had been very seldom seen. Indeed, there
were many of the country folks dwelling within half an hour's walk of
the fountain who had never beheld Pegasus, and did not believe that
there was any such creature in existence. The country fellow to whom
Bellerophon was speaking chanced to be one of those incredulous persons.
[Illustration: PEGASUS AT THE FOUNTAIN]
And that was the reason why he laughed.
"Pegasus, indeed!" cried he, turning up his nose as high as such a flat
nose could be turned up. "Pegasus, indeed! A winged horse, truly! Why,
friend, are you in your senses? Of what use would wings be to a horse?
Could he drag the plow so well, think you? To be sure, there might be a
little saving in the expense of shoes, but then how would a man like to
see his horse flying out of the stable window?--yes, or whisking him up
above the clouds when he only wanted to ride to mill? No, no! I don't
believe in Pegasus. There never was such a ridiculous kind of a horse-
fowl made!"
"I have reason to think otherwise," said Bellerophon quietly.
And then he turned to an old gray man who was leaning on a staff and
listening very attentively with his head stretched forward and one hand
at his ear, because for the last twenty years he had been getting rather
deaf.
"And what say you, venerable sir?" inquired he. "In your younger days, I
should imagine, you must frequently have seen the winged steed."
"Ah, young stranger, my memory is very poor," said the aged man. "When I
was a lad, if I remember rightly, I used to believe there was such a
horse, and so did everybody else. But nowadays I hardly know what to
think, and very seldom think about the winged horse at all. If I ever
saw the creature, it was a long, long while ago; and, to tell you the
truth, I doubt whether I ever did see him. One day, to be sure, when I
was quite a youth, I remember seeing some hoof-prints round about the
brink of the fountain. Pegasus might have made those hoof-marks, and so
might some other horse."
"And have you never seen him, my fair maiden?" asked Bellerophon of the
girl, who stood with the pitcher on her head while this talk went on.
"You surely could see Pegasus if anybody can, for your eyes are very
bright."
"Once I thought I saw him," replied the maiden, with a smile and a
blush. "It was either Pegasus or a large white bird a very great way up
in the air. And one other time, as I was coming to the fountain with my
pitcher, I heard a neigh. Oh, such a brisk and melodious neigh as that
was! My very heart leaped with delight at the sound. But it startled me,
nevertheless, so that I ran home without filling my pitcher."
"That was truly a pity!" said Bellerophon.
And he turned to the child whom I mentioned at the beginning of the
story, and who was gazing at him, as children are apt to gaze at
strangers, with his rosy mouth wide open.
"Well, my little fellow," cried Bellerophon, playfully pulling one of
his curls, "I suppose you have often seen the winged horse."
"That I have," answered the child very readily. "I saw him yesterday and
many times before."
"You are a fine little man!" said Bellerophon, drawing the child closer
to him. "Come, tell me all about it."
"Why," replied the child, "I often come here to sail little boats in the
fountain and to gather pretty pebbles out of its basin. And sometimes,
when I look down into the water, I see the image of the winged horse in
the picture of the sky that is there. I wish he would come down and take
me on his back and let me ride him up to the moon. But if I so much as
stir to look at him, he flies far away, out of sight."
And Bellerophon put his faith in the child who had seen the image of
Pegasus in the water, and in the maiden who had heard him neigh so
melodiously, rather than in the middle-aged clown who believed only in
cart horses, or in the old man who had forgotten the beautiful things of
his youth.
Therefore he haunted about the Fountain of Pirene for a great many days
afterward. He kept continually on the watch, looking upward at the sky
or else down into the water, hoping forever that he should see either
the reflected image of the winged horse or the marvelous reality. He
held the bridle with its bright gems and golden bit always ready in his
hand. The rustic people who dwelt in the neighborhood and drove their
cattle to the fountain to drink would often laugh at poor Bellerophon,
and sometimes take him pretty severely to task. They told him that an
able-bodied young man like himself ought to have better business than to
be wasting his time in such an idle pursuit. They offered to sell him a
horse if he wanted one, and when Bellerophon declined the purchase they
tried to drive a bargain with him for his fine bridle.
Even the country boys thought him so very foolish that they used to have
a great deal of sport about him, and were rude enough not to care a fig
although Bellerophon saw and heard it. One little urchin, for example,
would play Pegasus, and cut the oddest imaginable capers by way of
flying, while one of his schoolfellows would scamper after him holding
forth a twist of bulrushes which was intended to represent Bellerophon's
ornamental bridle. But the gentle child who had seen the picture of
Pegasus in the water comforted the young stranger more than all the
naughty boys could torment him. The dear little fellow in his play-hours
often sat down beside him, and, without speaking a word, would look down
into the fountain and up toward the sky with so innocent a faith that
Bellerophon could not help feeling encouraged.
Now, you will perhaps wish to be told why it was that Bellerophon had
undertaken to catch the winged horse, and we shall find no better
opportunity to speak about this matter than while he is waiting for
Pegasus to appear.
If I were to relate the whole of Bellerophon's previous adventures, they
might easily grow into a very long story. It will be quite enough to say
that in a certain country of Asia a terrible monster called a Chimera
had made its appearance, and was doing more mischief than could be
talked about between now and sunset. According to the best accounts
which I have been able to obtain, this Chimera was nearly, if not quite,
the ugliest and most poisonous creature, and the strangest and
unaccountablest, and the hardest to fight with and the most difficult to
run away from, that ever came out of the earth's inside. It had a tail
like a boa constrictor, its body was like I do not care what, and it had
three separate heads, one of which was a lion's, the second a goat's,
and the third an abominably great snake's; and a hot blast of fire came
flaming out of each of its three mouths. Being an earthly monster, I
doubt whether it had any wings; but, wings or no, it ran like a goat and
a lion, and wriggled along like a serpent, and thus contrived to make
about as much speed as all the three together.
Oh, the mischief and mischief and mischief that this naughty creature
did! With its flaming breath it could set a forest on fire or burn up a
field of grain, or, for that matter, a village with all its fences and
houses. It laid waste the whole country round about, and used to eat up
people and animals alive, and cook them afterwards in the burning oven
of its stomach. Mercy on us, little children! I hope neither you nor I
will ever happen to meet a Chimera.
While the hateful beast (if a beast we can anywise call it) was doing
all these horrible things, it so chanced that Bellerophon came to that
part of the world on a visit to the king. The king's name was Iobates,
and Lycia was the country which he ruled over. Bellerophon was one of
the bravest youths in the world, and desired nothing so much as to do
some valiant and beneficent deed, such as would make all mankind admire
and love him. In those days the only way for a young man to distinguish
himself was by fighting battles, either with the enemies of his country
or with wicked giants or with troublesome dragons or with wild beasts,
when he could find nothing more dangerous to encounter. King Iobates,
perceiving the courage of his youthful visitor, proposed to him to go
and fight the Chimera, which everybody else was afraid of, and which,
unless it should be soon killed, was likely to convert Lycia into a
desert. Bellerophon hesitated not a moment, but assured the king that he
would either slay this dreaded Chimera or perish in the attempt.
But, in the first place, as the monster was so prodigiously swift, he
bethought himself that he should never win the victory by fighting on
foot. The wisest thing he could do, therefore, was to get the very best
and fleetest horse that could anywhere be found. And what other horse in
all the world was half so fleet as the marvelous horse Pegasus, who had
wings as well as legs, and was even more active in the air than on the
earth? To be sure, a great many people denied that there was any such
horse with wings, and said that the stories about him were all poetry
and nonsense. But, wonderful as it appeared, Bellerophon believed that
Pegasus was a real steed, and hoped that he himself might be fortunate
enough to find him; and once fairly mounted on his back, he would be
able to fight the Chimera at better advantage.
And this was the purpose with which he had traveled from Lycia to Greece
and had brought the beautifully ornamented bridle in his hand. It was an
enchanted bridle. If he could only succeed in putting the golden bit
into the mouth of Pegasus, the winged horse would be submissive, and
would own Bellerophon for his master, and fly whithersoever he might
choose to turn the rein.
But, indeed, it was a weary and anxious time while Bellerophon waited
and waited for Pegasus, in hopes that he would come and drink at the
fountain of Pirene. He was afraid lest King Iobates should imagine that
he had fled from the Chimera. It pained him, too, to think how much
mischief the monster was doing, while he himself, instead of fighting
with it, was compelled to sit idly poring over the bright waters of
Pirene as they gushed out of the sparkling sand. And as Pegasus came
thither so seldom in these latter years, and scarcely alighted there
more than once in a lifetime, Bellerophon feared that he might grow an
old man, and have no strength left in his arms nor courage in his heart,
before the winged horse would appear. Oh, how heavily passes the time
while an adventurous youth is yearning to do his part in life and to
gather in the harvest of his renown! How hard a lesson it is to wait!
Our life is brief, and how much of it is spent in teaching us only this!
Well was it for Bellerophon that the gentle child had grown so fond of
him and was never weary of keeping him company. Every morning the child
gave him a new hope to put in his bosom instead of yesterday's withered
one.
"Dear Bellerophon," he would cry, looking up hopefully into his face, "I
think we shall see Pegasus to-day."
And at length, if it had not been for the little boy's unwavering faith,
Bellerophon would have given up all hope, and would have gone back to
Lycia and have done his best to slay the Chimera without the help of the
winged horse. And in that case poor Bellerophon would at least have been
terribly scorched by the creature's breath, and would most probably have
been killed and devoured. Nobody should ever try to fight an earthborn
Chimera unless he can first get upon the back of an aerial steed.
One morning the child spoke to Bellerophon even more hopefully than
usual.
"Dear, dear Bellerophon," cried he, "I know not why it is, but I feel as
if we should certainly see Pegasus to-day."
And all that day he would not stir a step from Bellerophon's side; so
they ate a crust of bread together, and drank some of the water of the
fountain. In the afternoon, there they sat, and Bellerophon had thrown
his arm around the child, who likewise had put one of his little hands
into Bellerophon's. The latter was lost in his own thoughts, and was
fixing his eyes vacantly on the trunks of the trees that over-shadowed
the fountain. But the gentle child was gazing down into the water; he
was grieved, for Bellerophon's sake, that the hope of another day should
be deceived like so many before it, and two or three quiet teardrops
fell from his eyes and mingled with what were said to be the many tears
of Pirene, when she wept for her slain children.
But, when he least thought of it, Bellerophon felt the pressure of the
child's little hand and heard a soft, almost breathless, whisper:
"See there, dear Bellerophon! There is an image in the water."
The young man looked down into the dimpling mirror of the fountain, and
saw what he took to be the reflection of a bird which seemed to be
flying at a great height in the air, with a gleam of sunshine on its
snowy or silvery wings.
"What a splendid bird it must be!" said he. "And how very large it
looks, though it must really be flying higher than the clouds!"
"It makes me tremble," whispered the child. "I am afraid to look up into
the air. It is very beautiful, and yet I dare only look at its image in
the water. Dear Bellerophon, do you not see that it is no bird? It, is
the winged horse Pegasus."
Bellerophon's heart began to throb. He gazed keenly upward, but could
not see the winged creature, whether bird or horse, because just then it
had plunged into the fleecy depths of a summer cloud. It was but a
moment, however, before the object reappeared, sinking lightly down out
of the cloud, although still at a vast distance from the earth.
Bellerophon caught the child in his arms and shrank back with him, so
that they were both hidden among the thick shrubbery which grew all
around the fountain. Not that he was afraid of any harm, but he dreaded
lest, if Pegasus caught a glimpse of them, he would fly far away and
alight in some inaccessible mountain top. For it was really the winged
horse. After they had expected him so long, he was coming to quench his
thirst with the water of Pirene.
Nearer and nearer came the aerial wonder, flying in great circles, as
you may have seen a dove when about to alight. Downward came Pegasus, in
those wide, sweeping circles which grew narrower and narrower still as
he gradually approached the earth. The nigher the view of him, the more
beautiful he was and the more marvelous the sweep of his silvery wings.
At last, with so light a pressure as hardly to bend the grass about the
fountain or imprint a hoof-tramp in the sand of its margin, he alighted,
and, stooping his wild head, began to drink. He drew in the water with
long and pleasant sighs and tranquil pauses of enjoyment, and then
another draught, and another, and another. For nowhere in the world or
up among the clouds did Pegasus love any water as he loved this of
Pirene. And when his thirst was slaked he cropped a few of the honey-
blossoms of the clover, delicately tasting them, but not caring to make
a hearty meal, because the herbage just beneath the clouds on the lofty
sides of Mount Helicon suited his palate better than this ordinary
grass.
After thus drinking to his heart's content, and in his dainty fashion
condescending to take a little food, the winged horse began to caper to
and fro, and dance, as it were, out of mere idleness and sport. There
never was a more playful creature made than this very Pegasus. So there
he frisked in a way that it delights me to think about, fluttering his
great wings as lightly as ever did a linnet, and running little races
half on earth and half in air, and which I know not whether to call a
flight or a gallop. When a creature is perfectly able to fly, he
sometimes chooses to run just for the pastime of the thing; and so did
Pegasus, although it cost him some little trouble to keep his hoofs so
near the ground. Bellerophon, meanwhile, holding the child's hand,
peeped forth from the shrubbery, and thought that never was any sight so
beautiful as this, nor ever a horse's eyes so wild and spirited as those
of Pegasus.
Once or twice Pegasus stopped and snuffed the air, pricking up his ears,
tossing his head, and turning it on all sides, as if he partly suspected
some mischief or other. Seeing nothing, however, and hearing no sound,
he soon began his antics again. At length--not that he was weary, but
only idle and luxurious--Pegasus folded his wings and lay down on the
soft green turf. But, being too full of aerial life to remain quiet for
many moments together, he soon rolled over on his back with his four
slender legs in the air. It was beautiful to see him, this one solitary
creature whose mate had never been created, but who needed no companion,
and, living a great many hundred years, was as happy as the centuries
were long. The more he did such things as mortal horses are accustomed
to do, the less earthly and the more wonderful he seemed. Bellerophon
and the child almost held their breath, partly from a delightful awe,
but still more because they dreaded lest the slightest stir or murmur
should send him up with the speed of an arrow-flight into the farthest
blue of the sky. Finally, when he had had enough of rolling over and
over, Pegasus turned himself about, and, indolently, like any other
horse, put out his forelegs in order to rise from the ground; and
Bellerophon, who had guessed that he would do so, darted suddenly from
the thicket and leaped astride of his back.
Yes, there he sat, on the back of the winged horse!
But what a bound did Pegasus make when, for the first time, he felt the
weight of a mortal man upon his loins! A bound, indeed! Before he had
time to draw a breath Bellerophon found himself five hundred feet aloft,
and still shooting upward, while the winged horse snorted and trembled
with terror and anger. Upward he went, up, up, up, until he plunged into
the cold, misty bosom of a cloud at which, only a little while before,
Bellerophon had been gazing and fancying it a very pleasant spot. Then
again, out of the heart of the cloud, Pegasus shot down like a
thunderbolt, as if he meant to dash both himself and his rider head-long
against a rock. Then he went through about a thousand of the wildest
caprioles that had ever been performed either by a bird or a horse.
I cannot tell you half that he did. He skimmed straight forward, and
sideways, and backward. He reared himself erect, with his forelegs on a
wreath of mist and his hind legs on nothing at all. He flung out his
heels behind and put down his head between his legs, with his wings
pointing right upward. At about two miles' height above the earth he
turned a somersault, so that Bellerophon's heels were where his head
should have been, and he seemed to look down into the sky, instead of
up. He twisted his head about, and, looking Bellerophon in the face,
with fire flashing from his eyes, made a terrible attempt to bite him.
He fluttered his pinions so wildly that one of the silver feathers was
shaken out, and, floating earthward, was picked up by the child, who
kept it as long as he lived in memory of Pegasus and Bellerophon.
But the latter (who, as you may judge, was as good a horseman as ever
galloped) had been watching his opportunity, and at last clapped the
golden bit of the enchanted bridle between the winged steed's jaws. No
sooner was this done than Pegasus became as manageable as if he had
taken food all his life out of Bellerophon's hand. To speak what I
really feel, it was almost a sadness to see so wild a creature grow
suddenly so tame. And Pegasus seemed to feel it so likewise. He looked
round to Bellerophon with tears in his beautiful eyes, instead of the
fire that so recently flashed from them. But when Bellerophon patted his
head and spoke a few authoritative, yet kind and soothing words, another
look came into the eyes of Pegasus; for he was glad at heart, after so
many lonely centuries, to have found a companion and a master. Thus it
always is with winged horses and with all such wild and solitary
creatures. If you can catch and overcome them, it is the surest way to
win their love.
While Pegasus had been doing his utmost to shake Bellerophon off his
back, he had flown a very long distance, and they had come within sight
of a lofty mountain by the time the bit was in his mouth. Bellerophon
had seen this mountain before, and knew it to be Helicon, on the summit
of which was the winged horse's abode. Thither (after looking gently
into his rider's face, as if to ask leave) Pegasus now flew, and,
alighting, waited patiently until Bellerophon should please to dismount.
The young man accordingly leaped from his steed's back, but still held
him fast by the bridle. Meeting his eyes, however, he was so affected by
the gentleness of his aspect and by his beauty, and by the thought of
the free life which Pegasus had heretofore lived, that he could not bear
to keep him a prisoner if he really desired his liberty.
Obeying this generous impulse, he slipped the enchanted bridle off the
head of Pegasus and took the bit from his mouth.
"Leave me, Pegasus!" said he. "Either leave me or love me."
In an instant the winged horse shot almost out of sight, soaring
straight upward from the summit of Mount Helicon. Being long after
sunset, it was now twilight on the mountain top and dusky evening over
all the country round about. But Pegasus flew so high that he overtook
the departed day, and was bathed in the upper radiance of the sun.
Ascending higher and higher, he looked like a bright speck, and at last
could no longer be seen in the hollow waste of the sky. And Bellerophon
was afraid that he should never behold him more. But while he was
lamenting his own folly the bright speck reappeared, and drew nearer and
nearer until it descended lower than the sunshine; and behold, Pegasus
had come back! After this trial there was no more fear of the winged
horse's making his escape. He and Bellerophon were friends, and put
loving faith in one another.
That night they lay down and slept together, with Bellerophon's arm
about the neck of Pegasus, not as a caution, but for kindness. And they
awoke at peep of day and bade one another good morning, each in his own
language.
In this manner Bellerophon and the wondrous steed spent several days,
and grew better acquainted and fonder of each other all the time. They
went on long aerial journeys, and sometimes ascended so high that the
earth looked hardly bigger than the moon. They visited different
countries and amazed the inhabitants, who thought that the beautiful
young man on the back of the winged horse must have come down out of the
sky. A thousand miles a day was no more than an easy space for the fleet
Pegasus to pass over. Bellerophon was delighted with this kind of life,
and would have liked nothing better than to live always in the same way,
aloft in the clear atmosphere; for it was always sunny weather up there,
however cheerless and rainy it might be in the lower region. But he
could not forget the horrible Chimera which he had promised King Iobates
to slay. So at last, when he had become well accustomed to feats of
horsemanship in the air, and could manage Pegasus with the least motion
of his hand, and had taught him to obey his voice, he determined to
attempt the performance of this perilous adventure.
At daybreak, therefore, as soon as he unclosed his eyes, he gently
pinched the winged horse's ear in order to arouse him. Pegasus
immediately started from the ground and pranced about a quarter of a
mile aloft, and made a grand sweep around the mountain top by way of
showing that he was wide awake and ready for any kind of an excursion.
During the whole of this little flight, he uttered a loud, brisk, and
melodious neigh, and finally came down at Bellerophon's side as lightly
as you ever saw a sparrow hop upon a twig.
"Well done, dear Pegasus! well done, my sky-skimmer!" cried Bellerophon,
fondly stroking the horse's neck. "And now, my fleet and beautiful
friend, we must break our fast. To-day we are to fight the terrible
Chimera."
As soon as they had eaten their morning meal and drunk some sparkling
water from a spring called Hippocrene, Pegasus held out his head of his
own accord so that his master might put on the bridle. Then, with a
great many playful leaps and airy caperings, he showed his impatience to
be gone, while Bellerophon was girding on his sword and hanging his
shield about his neck and preparing himself for battle. When everything
was ready, the rider mounted, and (as was his custom when going a long
distance) ascended five miles perpendicularly, so as the better to see
whither he was directing his course. He then turned the head of Pegasus
toward the east, and set out for Lycia. In their flight they overtook an
eagle, and came so nigh him, before he could get out of their way, that
Bellerophon might easily have caught him by the leg. Hastening onward at
this rate, it was still early in the forenoon when they beheld the lofty
mountains of Lycia with their deep and shaggy valleys. If Bellerophon
had been told truly, it was in one of those dismal valleys that the
hideous Chimera had taken up its abode.
Being now so near their journey's end, the winged horse gradually
descended with his rider, and they took advantage of some clouds that
were floating over the mountain tops in order to conceal themselves.
Hovering on the upper surface of a cloud and peeping over its edge,
Bellerophon had a pretty distinct view of the mountainous part of Lycia,
and could look into all its shadowy vales at once. It was a wild,
savage, and rocky tract of high and precipitous hills. In the more level
part of the country there were ruins of burned houses, and here and
there the carcasses of dead cattle strewn about the pastures where they
had been feeding.
"The Chimera must have done this mischief," thought Bellerophon. "But
where can the monster be?"
As I have already said, there was nothing remarkable to be detected at
first sight in any of the valleys and dells that lay among the
precipitous heights of the mountains--nothing at all, unless, indeed, it
were three spires of black smoke which issued from what seemed to be the
mouth of a cavern and clambered sullenly into the atmosphere. Before
reaching the mountain top these three black smoke-wreaths mingled
themselves into one. The cavern was almost directly beneath the winged
horse and his rider, at the distance of about a thousand feet. The
smoke, as it crept heavily upward, had an ugly, sulphurous, stifling
scent which caused Pegasus to snort and Bellerophon to sneeze. So
disagreeable was it to the marvelous steed (who was accustomed to
breathe only the purest air) that he waved his wings and shot half a
mile out of the range of this offensive vapor.
But on looking behind him, Bellerophon saw something that induced him
first to draw the bridle and then to turn Pegasus about. He made a sign,
which the winged horse understood, and sunk slowly through the air until
his hoofs were scarcely more than a man's height above the rocky bottom
of the valley. In front, as far off as you could throw a stone, was the
cavern's mouth with the three smoke-wreaths oozing out of it. And what
else did Bellerophon behold there?
There seemed to be a heap of strange and terrible creatures curled up
within the cavern. Their bodies lay so close together that Bellerophon
could not distinguish them apart; but, judging by their heads, one of
these creatures was a huge snake, the second a fierce lion, and the
third an ugly goat.
The lion and the goat were asleep; the snake was broad awake, and kept
staring around him with a great pair of fiery eyes. But--and this was
the most wonderful part of the matter--the three spires of smoke
evidently issued from the nostrils of these three heads! So strange was
the spectacle, that, though Bellerophon had been all along expecting it,
the truth did not immediately occur to him that here was the terrible
three-headed Chimera. He had found out the Chimera's cavern. The snake,
the lion, and the goat, as he supposed them to be, were not three
separate creatures, but one monster!
The wicked, hateful thing! Slumbering as two thirds of it were, it still
held in its abominable claws the remnant of an unfortunate lamb--or
possibly (but I hate to think so) it was a dear little boy--which its
three mouths had been gnawing before two of them fell asleep!
All at once Bellerophon started as from a dream, and knew it to be the
Chimera. Pegasus seemed to know it at the same instant, and sent forth a
neigh that sounded like the call of a trumpet to battle. At this sound
the three heads reared themselves erect and belched out great flashes of
flame. Before Bellerophon had time to consider what to do next, the
monster flung itself out of the cavern and sprung straight toward him,
with its immense claws extended and its snaky tail twisting itself
venomously behind. If Pegasus had not been as nimble as a bird, both he
and his rider would have been overthrown by the Chimera's headlong rush,
and thus the battle have been ended before it was well begun. But the
winged horse was not to be caught so. In the twinkling of an eye he was
up aloft, halfway to the clouds, snorting with anger. He shuddered, too,
not with affright, but with utter disgust at the loathsomeness of this
poisonous thing with three heads.
[Illustration: PEGASUS DARTED DOWN ASLANT TOWARD THE CHIMERA'S THREE-
FOLD HEAD.]
The Chimera, on the other hand, raised itself up so as to stand
absolutely on the tip end of its tail, with its talons pawing fiercely
in the air and its three heads spluttering fire at Pegasus and his
rider. My stars! how it roared and hissed and bellowed! Bellerophon,
meanwhile, was fitting his shield on his arm and drawing his sword.
"Now, my beloved Pegasus," he whispered in the winged horse's ear, "thou
must help me to slay this insufferable monster, or else thou shalt fly
back to thy solitary mountain peak without thy friend Bellerophon. For
either the Chimera dies, or its three mouths shall gnaw this head of
mine, which has slumbered upon thy neck."
Pegasus whinnied, and, turning back his head, rubbed his nose tenderly
against his rider's cheek. It was his way of telling him that, though he
had wings and was an immortal horse, yet he would perish, if it were
possible for immortality to perish, rather than leave Bellerophon
behind.
"I thank you, Pegasus," answered Bellerophon. "Now, then, let us make a
dash at the monster!"
Uttering these words, he shook the bridle, and Pegasus darted down
aslant, as swift as the flight of an arrow, right toward the Chimera's
three-fold head, which all this time was poking itself as high as it
could into the air. As he came within arm's length, Bellerophon made a
cut at the monster, but was carried onward by his steed before he could
see whether the blow had been successful. Pegasus continued his course,
but soon wheeled round at about the same distance from the Chimera as
before. Bellerophon then perceived that he had cut the goat's head of
the monster almost off, so that it dangled downward by the skin, and
seemed quite dead. But, to make amends, the snake's head and the lion's
head had taken all the fierceness of the dead one into themselves, and
spit flame and hissed and roared with more fury than before.
"Never mind, my brave Pegasus!" cried Bellerophon. "With another stroke
like that we will surely stop either its hissing or its roaring."
And again he shook the bridle. Dashing aslant-wise as before, the winged
horse made another arrow-flight toward the Chimera, and Bellerophon
aimed another downright stroke at one of the two remaining heads as he
shot by. But this time neither he nor Pegasus escaped so well as at
first. With one of its claws the Chimera had given the young man a deep
scratch in his shoulder, and had slightly damaged the left wing of the
flying steed with the other. On his part, Bellerophon had mortally
wounded the lion's head of the monster, insomuch that it now hung
downward, with its fire almost extinguished, and sending out gasps of
thick black smoke. The snake's head, however (which was the only one now
left), was twice as fierce and venomous as ever before. It belched forth
shoots of fire five hundred yards long, and emitted hisses so loud, so
harsh, and so ear-piercing that King Iobates heard them fifty miles off,
and trembled till the throne shook under him.
"Well-a-day!" thought the poor king; "the Chimera is certainly coming to
devour me."
Meanwhile Pegasus had again paused in the air and neighed angrily, while
sparkles of a pure crystal flame darted out of his eyes. How unlike the
lurid fire of the Chimera! The aerial steed's spirit was all aroused,
and so was that of Bellerophon.
"Dost thou bleed, my immortal horse?" cried the young man, caring less
for his own hurt than for the anguish of this glorious creature that
ought never to have tasted pain. "The execrable Chimera shall pay for
this mischief with his last head."
Then he shook the bridle, shouted loudly and guided Pegasus, not
aslantwise as before, but straight at the monster's hideous front. So
rapid was the onset that it seemed but a dazzle and a flash before
Bellerophon was at close gripes with his enemy.
The Chimera by this time, after losing its second head, had got into a
red-hot passion of pain and rampant rage. It so flounced about, half on
earth and partly in the air, that it was impossible to say which element
it rested upon. It opened its snake jaws to such an abominable width
that Pegasus might almost, I was going to say, have flown right down its
throat, wings outspread, rider and all! At their approach it shot out a
tremendous blast of its fiery breath and enveloped Bellerophon and his
steed in a perfect atmosphere of flame, singeing the wings of Pegasus,
scorching off one whole side of the young man's ringlets, and making
them both far hotter than was comfortable from head to foot.
But this was nothing to what followed.
When the airy rush of the winged horse had brought him within the
distance of a hundred yards, the Chimera gave a spring, and flung its
huge, awkward, venomous and utterly detestable carcass right upon poor
Pegasus, clung round him with might and main, and tied up its snaky tail
into a knot! Up flew the aerial steed, higher, higher, above the
mountain peaks, above the clouds, and almost out of sight of the solid
earth. But still the earth-born monster kept its hold and was borne
upward along with the creature of light and air. Bellerophon, meanwhile,
turning about, found himself face to face with the ugly grimness of the
Chimera's visage, and could only avoid being scorched to death or bitten
right in twain by holding up his shield. Over the upper edge of the
shield he looked sternly into the savage eyes of the monster.
But the Chimera was so mad and wild with pain that it did not guard
itself so well as might else have been the case. Perhaps, after all, the
best way to fight a Chimera is by getting as close to it as you can. In
its efforts to stick its horrible iron claws into its enemy the creature
left its own breast quite exposed, and, perceiving this, Bellerophon
thrust his sword up to the hilt into its cruel heart. Immediately the
snaky tail untied its knot. The monster let go its hold of Pegasus and
fell from that vast height downward, while the fire within its bosom,
instead of being put out, burned fiercer than ever, and quickly began to
consume the dead carcass. Thus it fell out of the sky all aflame, and
(it being nightfall before it reached the earth) was mistaken for a
shooting star or a comet. But at early sunrise some cottagers were going
to their day's labor, and saw, to their astonishment, that several acres
of ground were strewn with black ashes. In the middle of a field there
was a heap of whitened bones a great deal higher than a haystack.
Nothing else was ever seen of the dreadful Chimera. And when Bellerophon
had won the victory he bent forward and kissed Pegasus, while the tears
stood in his eyes.
"Back, now, my beloved steed!" said he. "Back to the fountain of
Pirene!"
Pegasus skimmed through the air quicker than ever he did before, and
reached the fountain in a very short time. And there he found the old
man leaning on his staff, and the country fellow watering his cow, and
the pretty maiden filling her pitcher.
"I remember now," quoth the old man, "I saw this winged horse once
before, when I was quite a lad. But he was ten times handsomer in those
days."
"I own a cart horse worth three of him," said the country fellow. "If
this pony were mine, the first thing I should do would be to clip his
wings."
But the poor maiden said nothing, for she had always the luck to be
afraid at the wrong time. So she ran away, and let her pitcher tumble
down, and broke it.
"Where is the gentle child," asked Bellerophon, "who used to keep me
company, and never lost his faith, and never was weary of gazing into
the fountain?"
"Here am I, dear Bellerophon!" said the child softly.
For the little boy had spent day after day on the margin of Pirene,
waiting for his friend to come back; but when he perceived Bellerophon
descending through the clouds, mounted on the winged horse, he had
shrunk back into the shrubbery. He was a delicate and tender child, and
dreaded lest the old man and the country fellow should see the tears
gushing from his eyes.
"Thou hast won the victory," said he joyfully, running to the knee of
Bellerophon, who still sat on the back of Pegasus. "I knew thou
wouldst."
"Yes, dear child!" replied Bellerophon, alighting from the winged horse.
"But if thy faith had not helped me, I should never have waited for
Pegasus, and never have gone up above the clouds, and never have
conquered the terrible Chimera. Thou, my little friend, hast done it
all. And now let us give Pegasus his liberty." So he slipped off the
enchanted bridle from the head of the marvelous steed.
"Be free for evermore, my Pegasus!" cried he, with a shade of sadness in
his tone. "Be as free as thou art fleet."
But Pegasus rested his head on Bellerophon's shoulder, and would not
take flight.
"Well, then," said Bellerophon, caressing the airy horse, "thou shalt be
with me as long as thou wilt, and we will go together forthwith and tell
King Iobates that the Chimera is destroyed."
Then Bellerophon embraced the gentle child and promised to come to him
again, and departed. But in after years that child took higher flights
upon the aerial steed than ever did Bellerophon, and achieved more
honorable deeds than his friend's victory over the Chimera. For, gentle
and tender as he was, he grew to be a mighty poet!
A VISIT FROM SAINT NICHOLAS
By Clement C. Moore
Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house
Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse;
The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,
In hopes that Saint Nicholas soon would be there;
The children were nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions of sugarplums danced in their heads;
And mamma in her kerchief, and I in my cap,
Had just settled our brains for a long winter's nap,--
When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from my bed to see what was the matter.
Away to the window I flew like a flash,
Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash.
The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow
Gave a lustre of midday to objects below;
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But a miniature sleigh and eight tiny reindeer,
With a little old driver, so lively and quick,
I knew in a moment it must be Saint Nick.
More rapid than eagles his coursers they came,
And he whistled and shouted, and called them by name:
"Now, Dasher! now, Dancer! now, Prancer and Vixen!
On, Comet! on, Cupid! on, Donder and Blitzen!
To the top of the porch, to the top of the wall!
Now dash away, dash away, dash away all!"
As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,
When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky,
So up to the house-top the coursers they flew,
With the sleigh full of toys,--and Saint Nicholas, too.
And then in a twinkling I heard on the roof
The prancing and pawing of each little hoof.
As I drew in my head, and was turning around,
Down the chimney Saint Nicholas came with a bound.
He was dressed all in fur from his head to his foot,
And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot;
A bundle of toys he had flung on his back,
And he looked like a peddler just opening his pack.
His eyes how they twinkled! his dimples how merry!
His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry;
His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,
And the beard on his chin was as white as the snow.
The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth,
And the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath.
He had a broad face and a little round belly
That shook, when he laughed, like a bowl full of jelly.
He was chubby and plump,--a right jolly old elf;
And I laughed, when I saw him, in spite of myself.
A wink of his eye and a twist of his head
Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread.
He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
And filled all the stockings; then turned with a jerk,
And laying his finger aside of his nose,
And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose,
He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle,
And away they all flew like the down of a thistle;
But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight,
"Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good night!"
Clement Clarke Moore, who wrote this poem, published a whole volume of
poems, but none of the others is as famous as is this. It was written
for his own children, and he did not even know that it was to be
published. It appeared in the Troy Sentinel in 1823, just two days
before Christmas, and we can imagine how delighted children were when
they had it read to them for the first time. It is not a great poem; but
no Christmas poem that has been published since has been half as popular
with children, and even grown people like it for its jolliness and its
Christmas spirit.
THE STORY OF PHAETHON
Phaeton, the son of the nymph Clymene, was very proud of his mother's
beauty, and used to boast of it greatly to his playmates. Tired of the
boy's bragging and conceit, one of his friends said to him one day:
"You're very willing to talk about your mother, but I notice you never
speak of your father. Are you ashamed of him?"
"No, I'm not," replied Phaethon, trying to look unabashed.
"Well, then, tell us about him. If he were anything great, you would be
willing enough to brag about him."
And because Phaethon kept quiet, all of his playmates began to jeer at
him, cruelly enough.
"You don't know your father. You've never seen him," they cried.
Phaethon would not cry before them, but there were tears of shame and
anger in his eyes as he told the story to his mother.
"Never mind, my boy," she said soothingly, "To-morrow you shall tell
them the name of your father, and that will stop their taunts. Come, let
me whisper it to you."
When Phaethon heard what she had to tell him, his eyes shone with joy
and pride, and he could scarce wait for morning to carry his news to his
mocking friends. He was first at the meeting-place, but he would say
nothing until all his playmates were gathered. Then he said, quietly,
but O, so proudly:
"My father is Apollo, the sun-god!"
For a moment there was silence; then came a burst of laughter from the
group crowded about Phaethon.
"A likely story! Who ever heard anything so ridiculous? It's quite plain
that your mother is ashamed of your father, and is trying to throw you
off the track."
Again Phaethon ran home, his cheeks burning, his eyes flashing, and
again he told his mother all that had passed.
"It's too late to do anything about it to-day," said Clymene, "but to-
morrow you shall go yourself to your father's palace, before he sets out
on his trip across the sky; and if he is pleased with you, he will give
you some proof that you are really his son."
Long before daylight the next morning Phaethon set out, and with his
mother's directions in mind, walked straight east until he came to the
dazzling palace of the sun. Had he not been a bold youth, he would have
been frightened and turned back; but he was determined to prove his
boasts, and passed on into the palace. At last, on a great golden
throne, he saw his father--surely a more glorious father than ever boy
had before. So glorious was he that Phaethon dared not approach him
closely, as the light about the throne was blinding. When Apollo
recognized him, however, he took off the crown of rays from about his
head and called to Phaethon to approach fearlessly.
As the boy stood before the throne, he was a son of whom no father, even
Apollo, needed to be ashamed; and as he hurried into his story, the sun-
god smiled at the signs of his impetuous temper.
"You're willing to own me for your son, aren't you?" finished Phaethon.
"To be sure I am," replied the sun-god; "and that your mates may never
have chance to doubt it more, I swear by the terrible Styx [Footnote:
The Styx was one of the great rivers of Hades. The oath by the Styx was
regarded as so binding that even a god could not break it without being
punished severely for his perjury. Any god who broke his oath was
obliged to drink of the black waters of the Styx which kept him in utter
unconsciousness for a year; and after his return to consciousness he was
banished for nine years from Olympus.] to give you any proof you ask."
It did not take Phaethon long to decide--he had made up his mind on the
way; and his words fairly tumbled over each other as he cried eagerly:
"Then I'll drive the sun-chariot for a day!"
Apollo was horrified, for he knew that he alone of the gods could manage
the fiery steeds; and if great Jupiter himself could not do it, what
would happen if they were placed in the power of this slight boy? He
begged Phaethon to release him from his promise, but--
"You promised, you promised!" repeated the boy. "You swore by the Styx,
and you CAN'T break your word."
This was true, as Apollo knew well; and at length, with a sigh, he
turned and called to his servants, the Hours, who stood ready to attend
him on his journey:
"Harness my steeds, and make sure that everything is right about the
chariot."
While this was being done, Apollo explained carefully to his son the
dangers of the way, hoping yet to turn him from his purpose.
"The path runs steeply upward at first," he said, "and with all their
strength the horses can scarce drag the chariot. During the middle of
the day the course is high, high in the heavens, and it will sicken you
and make you dizzy if you look down. But the latter part of the drive is
most dangerous, for it slopes rapidly down, and if the horses are not
tightly reined in, horses, chariot and driver will fall headlong into
the sea."
Nothing frightened Phaethon.
"You see," he explained, "it's not as if I didn't know how to drive.
I've often driven my grandfather's horses, and they are wild and
strong."
By this time the magnificent golden chariot and the six horses of white
fire were ready, and after one last plea to his son, Apollo permitted
him to mount the seat. He anointed the boy's face with a cooling lotion,
that the heat might not scorch him, and placed the crown of beams about
his head.
"And now," he said, "you must be off. Already the people on earth are
wondering why the sun does not rise. Do remember, my boy, not to use the
whip, and to choose a path across the heavens which is neither too high
nor too low."
With but scant attention to his father's advice, Phaethon gave the word
to his steeds and dashed out of the gates which Aurora opened for him.
And thus began a day which the gods on Olympus and the people on earth
never forgot.
[Illustration: IN VAIN PHAETHON PULLED AT THE REINS.]
The horses easily perceived that some other hand than their master's
held the lines, and they promptly became unmanageable. In vain Phaethon
pulled at the reins; in vain he called the steeds by name. Up the sky
they dashed, and then, first to the south, then to the north, they took
their zigzag course across the heavens. What a sight it must have
presented from below, this sun reeling crazily about the sky! Worst of
all, however, the horses did not keep at the same distance from the
earth. First they went down, down, until they almost touched the
mountain tops. Trees, grass, wheat, flowers, all were scorched and
blackened; and one great tract in Africa was so parched that nothing has
since been able to grow upon it. Rivers were dried up, the snow on the
mountain tops was melted, and, strangest of all, the people in the
country over which the sun-chariot was passing were burned black.
[Footnote: In this way the ancients explained the great desert of
Sahara, and the dark color of the people of Africa.] Then, rising, the
horses dragged the chariot so far from the earth that intense, bitter
cold killed off much of the vegetation which the fierce heat had spared.
Poor Phaethon could do nothing but clutch the seat and shut his eyes. He
dared not look down, lest he lose his balance and fall; he dared not
look about him, for there were, in all parts of the heavens, the most
terrifying animals--a great scorpion, a lion, two bears, a huge crab.
[Footnote: These terrifying animals which Phaethon saw in the sky were
the groups of stars, the constellations to which the ancients gave the
names of animals etc. We know the Big Dipper, or Great Bear, for we may
see it in the north any clear night.] Vainly he repented of his
rashness; sadly he wondered in what way his death would come.
It came suddenly--so suddenly that poor Phaethon did not feel the pain
of it. For Jupiter, when he saw the sun rocking about the heavens, did
not stop to inquire who the unknown charioteer was; he knew it was not
Apollo, and he knew the earth was being ruined--that was enough. Seizing
one of his biggest thunderbolts, he hurled it with all his might, and
Phaethon fell, flaming, from his lofty seat into the Eridanus River;
while the horses, whom no thunderbolt could harm, trotted quietly back
to their stalls. Clymene bewailed her son's death bitterly, and his
companions, grieved that their taunts should have driven their comrade
to his destruction, helped her to erect over his grave a stone on which
were these words:
"Lies buried here young Phaethon, who sought
To guide his father's chariot of flame.
What though he failed? No death ignoble his
Who fared to meet it with such lofty aim."
Most of the Greek myths had meanings; they were not simply fairy
stories. And while we have no means now of finding the meanings of some
of them, many of them are so clear that we can understand exactly what
the Greeks meant to teach by them. By far the most numerous are the so-
called "nature myths"--myths which they invented to explain the
happenings which they saw constantly about them in the natural world. Of
these nature myths the story of Phaethon is one.
The ancients believed that drought was caused by the sun's coming too
close to the earth; but how could Apollo, experienced driver of the sun-
chariot, ever be so careless as to drive close enough to the earth to
burn it? It was easy enough to imagine that the chariot, when it did
such damage, was being driven by some reckless person who knew not how
to guide it. But then arose the necessity of explaining Apollo's
willingness to trust such a reckless person with so great a task; and
what more likely than that the inexperienced charioteer was Apollo's
beloved son, who had induced his father to grant his rash request?
Gradually details were added, until the story took the form in which we
have it.
As the drought of summer is often brought to a close by a storm which is
accompanied by thunder and lightning, and which hides the light of the
sun, so in the story Phaethon's ruinous drive is brought to an end by
the thunderbolt of Jupiter; while the horses, trotting back home before
their time, leave the world in comparative darkness.
It must not be supposed that some one just sat down one day and said, "I
will tell a story which shall explain drought and the ending of
drought." This story, like all the others, grew up gradually. Perhaps,
one day, in time of drought, some one said to his neighbor, "The chariot
of Apollo is coming too close to the earth," and perhaps his neighbor
replied, "Some one who knows not how to guide the white horses is
driving it." Such language might in time easily become the common
language for describing times of drought; and so, at length, would grow
up, out of what was at first merely a description, in figurative
language, of a natural happening, a story, in dramatic form.
THE ENGLISH ROBIN
By Harrison Weir
See yon robin on the spray;
Look ye how his tiny form
Swells, as when his merry lay
Gushes forth amid the storm.
Though the snow is falling fast,
Specking o'er his coat with white,
Though loud roars the chilly blast,
And the evening's lost in night,
Yet from out the darkness dreary
Cometh still that cheerful note;
Praiseful aye, and never weary,
Is that little warbling throat.
Thank him for his lesson's sake,
Thank God's gentle minstrel there,
Who, when storms make others quake,
Sings of days that brighter were.
The English robin is not the bird we call robin redbreast in the United
States. Our robin is a big, lordly chap about ten inches long, but the
English robin is not more than five and a half inches long; that is, it
is smaller than an English sparrow. The robin of the poem has an olive-
green back and a breast of yellowish red, and in habits it is like our
warblers. It is a sweet singer, and a confiding, friendly little thing,
so that English children are very fond of it, and English writers are
continually referring to it.
TOM, THE WATER BABY
By Charles Kingsley
INTRODUCTORY NOTE
Charles Kingsley, who was born in 1819, and became Canon of the Church
of England at Chester, wrote, in addition to his interesting and
brilliant novels, The Water Babies, which is a charming fairy story for
young people. It is, however, one of those stories that can be read more
than once, and read by all classes of people.
Besides telling the delightful story of Tom, the water baby, and his
wonderful adventures on land and in water, Canon Kingsley gives in a
very amusing style accounts of many of the animals that live in and near
the water. But he brings them all into the story in such a way that they
seem to be real, living characters, and you are almost as much
interested in the stately salmon and his wife, or even in the funny old
lobster, as you would be if they were actual human beings.
As the story was written originally, there was a great deal in it for
children of much larger growth than those who will read it here. In some
respects the story resembles Gulliver's Travels, for Kingsley took
occasion to be satirical about many of the things which men and women
say, do and believe. Some of this satire children will enjoy thoroughly,
but some of it could not be understood well except by persons who have
lived in this world for many years. Accordingly, in this book, we have
thought it best to leave out some things, giving you only the story of
Tom, and hoping that when you young readers grow to manhood or womanhood
you will find The Water Babies, complete, a good story to read. You will
enjoy recalling the delight you have in it now, and will find out that
even a children's story may be so told as to keep a man thinking.
Moreover, the story was written by an Englishman for an English boy, and
there are a great many allusions to things that only English boys
appreciate or understand, and it has seemed wise to omit most of these.
On the other hand, nothing has been omitted to weaken the story of Tom,
and nothing has been added to destroy the charm of Canon Kingsley's
writing.
CHAPTER I
Once upon a time there was a little chimney-sweep, [Footnote: A boy
would have a hard time crawling through some of our chimneys nowadays,
but years ago, when houses had open fireplaces instead of steam plants,
there was a network of huge chimneys through which a small boy could
easily work his way, brushing off the soot as he went.] and his name was
Tom. That is a short name, and you have heard it before, so you will not
have much trouble in remembering it. He lived in a great town in the
North country, where there were plenty of chimneys to sweep, and plenty
of money for Tom to earn and his master to spend. He could not read nor
write, and did not care to do either; and he never washed himself, for
there was no water up the court where he lived. He had never been taught
to say his prayers. He never had heard of God, or of Christ, except in
words which you never have heard, and which it would have been well if
he had never heard.
[Illustration: THERE WAS A LITTLE CHIMNEY SWEEP, AND HIS NAME WAS TOM.]
He cried half his time, and laughed the other half. He cried when he had
to climb the dark flues, rubbing his poor knees and elbows raw; and when
the soot got into his eyes, which it did every day in the week; and when
his master beat him, which he did every day in the week; and when he had
not enough to eat, which happened every day in the week likewise. And he
laughed the other half of the day, when he was tossing halfpennies with
the other boys, or playing leapfrog over the posts, or bowling stones at
the horses' legs as they trotted by, which last was excellent fun, when
there was a wall at hand behind which to hide.
As for chimneysweeping, and being hungry, and being beaten, he took all
that for the way of the world, like the rain and snow and thunder, and
stood manfully with his back to it till it was over, as his old donkey
did to a hailstorm; and then shook his ears and was as jolly as ever;
and thought of the fine times coming, when he would be a man, and a
master sweep, [Footnote: A master sweep was a man who had grown too
large to climb up chimneys, but who kept boys whom he hired out for that
purpose.] and sit in the public-house with a quart of beer and a long
pipe, and play cards for silver money, and wear velveteens and ankle-
jacks, and keep a white bulldog with one gray ear, and carry her puppies
in his pocket, just like a man. And he would have apprentices, one, two,
three, if he could. How he would bully them, and knock them about, just
as his master did to him; and make them carry home the soot sacks, while
he rode before them on his donkey, with a pipe in his mouth and a flower
in his buttonhole, like a king at the head of his army. Yes, there were
good times coming; and when his master let him have a pull at the
leavings of his beer, Tom was the jolliest boy in the whole town.
One day a smart little groom rode into the court where Tom lived, and
halloed to him to know where Mr. Grimes, the chimney-sweep, lived. Now,
Mr. Grimes was Tom's own master, and Tom was a good man of business, and
always civil to customers, so he proceeded to take orders.
Mr. Grimes was to come up next morning to Sir John Harthover's at the
Place, for his old chimney-sweep was gone to prison, and the chimneys
wanted sweeping. And so he rode away, not giving Tom time to ask what
the sweep had gone to prison for, which was a matter of interest to Tom,
as he had been in prison once or twice himself. Moreover, the groom
looked so very neat and clean, with his drab gaiters, drab breeches,
drab jacket, snow-white tie with a smart pin in it, and clean round
ruddy face, that Tom was offended and disgusted at his appearance, and
considered him a stuck-up fellow, who gave himself airs because he wore
smart clothes, and other people paid for them.
His master was so delighted at his new customer that he knocked Tom down
out of hand, and drank more beer that night than he usually did in two,
in order to be sure of getting up in time next morning, for the more a
man's head aches when he wakes, the more glad he is to turn out, and
have a breath of fresh air. And when he did get up at four the next
morning, he knocked Tom down again, in order to teach him (as young
gentlemen used to be taught at public schools) that he must be an extra
good boy that day, as they were going to a very great house, and might
make a very good thing of it, if they could but give satisfaction.
And Tom thought so likewise, and, indeed, would have done and behaved
his best, even without being knocked down. For, of all places upon
earth, Harthover Place (which he had never seen) was the most wonderful,
and, of all men on earth, Sir John (whom he had seen, having been sent
to jail by him twice) was the most awful.
Harthover Place was really a grand place, even for the rich North
country, and Sir John a grand old man, whom even Mr. Grimes respected;
for not only could he send Mr. Grimes to prison when he deserved it, as
he did once or twice a week; not only did he own all the land about for
miles; not only was he as jolly, honest, sensible squire as ever kept a
pack of hounds, who would do what he thought right by his neighbors, as
well as get what he thought right for himself; but what was more, he
weighed full fifteen stone, was nobody knew how many inches round the
chest, and could have thrashed Mr. Grimes himself in fair fight, which
very few folk round there could do, and which, my dear little boy, would
not have been right for him to do, as a great many things are not which
one can do, and would like very much to do. So Mr. Grimes touched his
hat to him when he rode through the town, and thought that that made up
for his poaching Sir John's pheasants.
So Tom and his master set out; Grimes rode the donkey in front, and Tom
and the brushes walked behind; out of the court, and up the street, past
the closed window shutters, and the winking weary policemen, and the
roofs all shining gray in the gray dawn. They passed through the
pitmen's village, all shut up and silent now, and through the turn-pike;
and then they were out in the real country, and plodding along the black
dusty road, between black slag walls, with no sound but the groaning and
thumping of the pit-engine in the next field. But soon the road grew
white, and the walls likewise; and at the wall's foot grew long grass
and gay flowers, all drenched with dew; and instead of the groaning of
the pit-engine, they heard the skylark, saying his matins high up in the
air, and the pit-bird warbling in the sedges, as he had warbled all
night long.
All else was silent. For old Mrs. Earth was still fast asleep; and, like
many pretty people, she looked still prettier asleep than awake. The
great elm trees in the gold-green meadows were fast asleep above, and
the cows fast asleep beneath them; nay, the few clouds which were about
were fast asleep likewise, and so tired that they had lain down on the
earth to rest, in long white flakes and bars, among the stems of the elm
trees, and along the tops of the alders by the stream, waiting for the
sun to bid them rise and go about their day's business in the clear blue
overhead.
[Illustration: THEY CAME UP WITH A POOR IRISHWOMAN.]
On they went; and Tom looked, and looked, for he never had been so far
into the country before; and longed to get over a gate, and pick
buttercups, and look for birds' nests in the hedge; but Mr. Grimes was a
man of business, and would not have heard of that.
Soon they came up with a poor Irishwoman, trudging along with a bundle
at her back. She had a gray shawl over her head, and a crimson madder
petticoat; so you may be sure she came from Galway. [Footnote: Galway is
a county in the western part of Ireland. The dress here described was
the characteristic dress of the peasants of that county.] She had
neither shoes nor stockings, and limped along as if she were tired and
footsore; but she was a very tall, handsome woman, with bright gray
eyes, and heavy black hair hanging about her cheeks. And she took Mr.
Grimes' fancy so much, that when he came alongside he called out to her:
"This is a hard road for a gradely [Footnote: GRADELY, or GRAITHLY, is
an old word which meant DECENT or COMELY.] foot like that. Will ye up,
lass, and ride behind me?"
But, perhaps she did not admire Mr. Grimes' look and voice; for she
answered quietly:
"No, thank you; I'd sooner walk with your little lad here."
"You may please yourself," growled Grimes, and went on smoking.
So she walked beside Tom, and talked to him, and asked him where he
lived, and what he knew, and all about himself, till Tom thought he had
never met such a pleasant-spoken woman. And she asked him, at last,
whether he said his prayers! and seemed sad when he told her that he
knew no prayers to say.
Then he asked her where she lived, and she said far away by the sea. And
Tom asked her about the sea; and she told him how it rolled and roared
over the rocks in winter nights, and lay still in the bright summer
days, for the children to bathe and play in it; and many a story more,
till Tom longed to go and see the sea, and bathe in it likewise.
At last, at the bottom of a hill, they came to a spring; a real North
country fountain, like one of those in Sicily or Greece, where the old
heathen fancied the nymphs [Footnote: The nymphs, according to the
ancient Greeks, were divinities in the shape of beautiful maidens, who
lived in the woods or in springs and streams.] sat cooling themselves
the hot summer's day, while the shepherds peeped at them from behind the
bushes. Out of a low cave of rock, at the foot of a limestone crag, the
great fountain rose, quelling, and bubbling, and gurgling, so clear that
you could not tell where the water ended and the air began; and ran away
under the road, a stream large enough to turn a mill; among blue
geranium, and golden globeflower, and wild raspberry, and the bird
cherry with its tassels of snow. [Footnote: These are English flowers,
but you probably know some of them. The wild geranium, for instance,
with its pinkish-purple flowers, is common in our woods. The globeflower
is of rather a pale yellow, and its petals curl in so that it looks like
a ball.]
And there Grimes stopped and looked; and Tom looked, too. Tom was
wondering whether anything lived in that dark cave, and came out at
night to fly in the meadows. But Grimes was not wondering at all.
Without a word, he got off his donkey, and clambered over the low road
wall, and knelt down, and began dipping his ugly head into the spring--
and very dirty he made it.
Tom was picking the flowers as fast as he could. The Irishwoman helped
him, and showed him how to tie them up; and a very pretty nosegay they
had made between them. But when he saw Grimes actually wash, he stopped,
quite astonished; and when Grimes had finished, and began shaking his
ears to dry them, he said:
"Why, master, I never saw you do that before."
"Nor will again, most likely. 'Twasn't for cleanliness I did it, but for
coolness. I'd be ashamed to want washing every week or so, like any
smutty collier lad."
"I wish I might go and dip my head in," said poor little Tom. "It must
be as good as putting it under the town pump; and there is no beadle
here to drive a chap away."
"Thou come along," said Grimes; "what dost want with washing thyself?
Thou did not drink half a gallon of beer last night, like me."
"I don't care for you," said naughty Tom, and ran down to the stream,
and began washing his face.
Grimes was very sulky, because the woman preferred Tom's company to his;
so he dashed at him with horrid words, and tore him up from his knees,
and began beating him. But Tom was accustomed to that, and got his head
safe between Mr. Grimes' legs, and kicked his shins with all his might.
"Are you not ashamed of yourself, Thomas Grimes?" cried the Irishwoman
over the wall.
Grimes looked up, startled at her knowing his name; but all he answered
was, "No, nor never was yet"; and went on beating Tom.
"True for you. If you had ever been ashamed of yourself, you would have
gone over into Vendale long ago."
"What do you know about Vendale?" shouted Grimes; but he left off
beating Tom.
"I know about Vendale, and about you, too. I know, for instance, what
happened in Aldermire Copse, by night, two years ago come Martinmas."
"You do?" shouted Grimes; and leaving Tom, he climbed up over the wall,
and faced the woman. Tom thought he was going to strike her; but she
looked him too full and fierce in the face for that.
"Yes; I was there," said the Irishwoman quietly.
"You are no Irishwoman, by your speech," said Grimes, after many bad
words.
"Never mind who I am. I saw what I saw; and if you strike that boy
again, I can tell what I know."
Grimes seemed quite cowed, and got on his donkey without another word.
"Stop!" said the Irishwoman. "I have one more word for you both; for you
will both see me again before all is over. THOSE THAT WISH TO BE CLEAN,
CLEAN THEY WILL BE; AND THOSE THAT WISH TO BE FOUL, FOUL THEY WILL BE.
REMEMBER."
And she turned away, and through a gate into the meadow. Grimes stood
still a moment, like a man who had been stunned. Then he rushed after
her, shouting, "You come back." But when he got into the meadow, the
woman was not there.
Had she hidden away? There was no place to hide in. But Grimes looked
about, and Tom also, for he was as puzzled as Grimes himself at her
disappearing so suddenly; but look where they would, she was not there.
Grimes came back again, as silent as a post, for he was a little
frightened; and, getting on his donkey, filled a fresh pipe, and smoked
away, leaving Tom in peace.
And now they had gone three miles and more, and came to Sir John's lodge
gates. Grimes rang at the gate, and out came a keeper [Footnote: A
keeper is a man appointed, on a large estate, to see that no one
trespasses on the grounds or poaches the game.] on the spot, and opened.
"I was told to expect thee," he said. "Now thou'lt be so good as to keep
to the main avenue, and not let me find a hare or a rabbit on thee when
thou comest back. I shall look sharp for one, I tell thee."
[Illustration.]
"Not if it's in the bottom of the soot bag," quoth Grimes, and at that
he laughed; and the keeper laughed and said: "If that's thy sort, I may
as well walk up with thee to the hall."
"I think thou best had. It's thy business to see after thy game, man,
and not mine."
So the keeper went with them; and, to Tom's surprise, he and Grimes
chatted together all the way quite pleasantly. He did not know that a
keeper is only a poacher turned outside in, and a poacher a keeper
turned inside out.
They walked up a great lime avenue, a full mile long, and between their
stems Tom peeped trembling at the horns of the sleeping deer, which
stood up among the ferns. Tom had never seen such enormous trees, and as
he looked up he fancied that the blue sky rested on their heads. But he
was puzzled very much by a strange murmuring noise, which followed them
all the way. So much puzzled, that at last he took courage to ask the
keeper what it was.
He spoke very civilly, and called him Sir, for he was horribly afraid of
him, which pleased the keeper, and he told him that they were the bees
about the lime flowers.
"What are bees?" asked Tom.
"What make honey."
"What is honey?" asked Tom.
"Thou hold thy noise," said Grimes.
"Let the boy be," said the keeper. "He's a civil young chap now, and
that's more than he'll be long if he bides with thee."
Grimes laughed, for he took that for a compliment.
"I wish I were a keeper," said Tom, "to live in such a beautiful place,
and wear green velveteens, and have a real dog-whistle at my button,
like you."
The keeper laughed; he was a kind-hearted fellow enough.
"Let well alone, lad, and ill too at times. Thy life's safer than mine
at all events, eh, Mr. Grimes?"
And Grimes laughed again, and then the two men began talking quite low.
Tom could hear, though, that it was about some poaching fight; and at
last Grimes said surlily, "Hast thou anything against me?"
"Not now."
"Then don't ask me any questions till thou hast, for I am a man of
honour."
And at that they both laughed again, and thought it a very good joke.
And by this time they were come up to the great iron gates in front of
the house; and Tom stared through them at the rhododendrons and azaleas,
which were all in flower; and then at the house itself, and wondered how
many chimneys there were in it, and how long ago it was built, and what
was the man's name that built it, and whether he got much money for his
job.
[Illustration: HARTHOVER PLACE.]
But Tom and his master did not go in through the great iron gates, as if
they had been dukes or bishops, but round the back way, and a very long
way round it was; and into a little back door, where the ash-boy let
them in, yawning horribly; and then in a passage the housekeeper met
them, in such a flowered chintz dressing gown, that Tom mistook her for
My Lady herself, and she gave Grimes solemn orders about "You will take
care of this, and take care of that," as if he was going up the
chimneys, and not Tom. And Grimes listened, and said every now and then,
under his voice, "You'll mind that, you little beggar?" and Tom did
mind, all at least that he could. And then the housekeeper turned them
into a grand room, all covered up in sheets of brown paper, and bade
them begin, in a lofty and tremendous voice; and so after a whimper or
two, and a kick from his master, into the grate Tom went, and up the
chimney, while a housemaid stayed in the room to watch the furniture.
How many chimneys Tom swept I cannot say; but he swept so many that he
got quite tired, and puzzled, too, for they were not like the town flues
to which he was accustomed, but such as you would find--if you would
only get up them and look, which perhaps you would not like to do--in
old country houses; large and crooked chimneys, which had been altered
again and again, till they ran one into another. So Tom fairly lost his
way in them; not that he cared much for that, though he was in pitch
darkness, for he was as much at home in a chimney as a mole is
underground; but at last, coming down as he thought the right chimney,
he came down the wrong one, and found himself standing on the hearthrug
in a room the like of which he had never seen before.
He had never been in gentlefolks' rooms but when the carpets were all
up, and the curtains down, and the furniture huddled together under a
cloth, and the pictures covered with aprons and dusters; and he had
often enough wondered what the rooms were like when they were all ready
for the quality to sit in. And now he saw, and he thought the sight very
pretty.
The room was all dressed in white,--white window curtains, white bed
curtains, white furniture and white walls, with just a few lines of pink
here and there. The carpet was all over gay little flowers and the walls
were hung with pictures in gilt frames, which amused Tom very much.
There were pictures of ladies and gentlemen, and pictures of horses and
dogs. The horses he liked; but the dogs he did not care for much, for
there were no bulldogs among them, not even a terrier. But the two
pictures which took his fancy most were, one a man in long garments,
with little children and their mothers round him, who was laying his
hand upon the children's heads. That was a very pretty picture, Tom
thought, to hang in a lady's room. For he could see that it was a lady's
room by the dresses which lay about.
The other picture was that of a man nailed to a cross, which surprised
Tom much. He fancied that he had seen something like it in a shop
window. But why was it there? "Poor man," thought Tom, "and he looks so
kind and quiet." But why should the lady have such a sad picture as that
in her room? Perhaps it was some kinsman of hers, who had been murdered
by the savages in foreign parts, and she kept it there for a
remembrance. And Tom felt sad, and awed, and turned to look at something
else. The next thing he saw, and that, too, puzzled him, was a washing-
stand, with ewers and basins, and soap and brushes, and towels, and a
large bath full of clean water--what a heap of things all for washing!
"She must be a very dirty lady," thought Tom, "by my master's rule, to
want as much scrubbing as all that. But she must be very cunning to put
the dirt out of the way so well afterwards, for I don't see a speck
about the room, not even on the very towels."
And then, looking toward the bed, he saw that dirty lady, and held his
breath with astonishment.
Under the snow-white coverlet, upon the snow-white pillow, lay the most
beautiful little girl that Tom had ever seen. Her cheeks were almost as
white as the pillow, and her hair was like threads of gold spread all
about over the bed. She might have been as old as Tom, or maybe a year
or two older; but Tom did not think of that. He thought only of her
delicate skin and golden hair, and wondered whether she was a real live
person, or one of the wax dolls he had seen in the shops. But when he
saw her breathe, he made up his mind that she was alive, and stood
staring at her, as if she had been an angel out of heaven.
No. She cannot be dirty. She never could have been dirty, thought Tom to
himself; and then he thought, "And are all people like that when they
are washed?" And he looked at his own wrist, and tried to rub the soot
off, and wondered whether it ever would come off. "Certainly, I should
look much prettier then, if I grew at all like her."
And looking round, he suddenly saw, standing close to him, a little,
ugly, black, ragged figure, with bleared eyes and grinning white teeth.
He turned on it angrily. What did such a little black ape want in that
sweet young lady's room? And behold, it was himself, reflected in a
great mirror, the like of which Tom had never seen before.
And Tom, for the first time in his life, found out that he was dirty;
and burst into tears with shame and anger; and turned to sneak up the
chimney again and hide; and upset the fender and threw the fire irons
down, with a noise as of ten thousand tin kettles tied to ten thousand
mad dogs' tails.
Up jumped the little white lady in her bed, and seeing Tom, screamed as
shrill as any peacock. In rushed a stout old nurse from the next room,
and seeing Tom likewise, made up her mind that he had come to rob,
plunder, destroy, and burn, and dashed at him, as he lay over the
fender, so fast that she caught him by the jacket.
But she did not hold him. Tom had been in a policeman's hands many a
time, and out of them, too, what is more; and he would have been ashamed
to face his friends forever if he had been stupid enough to be caught by
an old woman; so he doubled under the good lady's arm, across the room,
and out of the window in a moment.
He did not need to drop out, though he would have done so bravely
enough; for all under the window spread a tree, with great leaves and
sweet white flowers, almost as big as his head. It was magnolia, I
suppose; but Tom knew nothing about that, and cared less; for down the
tree he went, like a cat, and across the garden lawn, and over the iron
railings, and up the park towards the wood, leaving the old nurse to
scream murder and fire at the window.
The under gardener, mowing, saw Tom, and threw down his scythe; caught
his leg in it, and cut his shin open, whereby he kept his bed for a
week; but in his hurry he never knew it, and gave chase to poor Tom. The
dairymaid heard the noise, got the churn between her knees, and tumbled
over it, spilling all the cream; and yet she jumped up, and gave chase
to Tom. A groom cleaning Sir John's hack at the stables let him go
loose, whereby he kicked himself lame in five minutes; but he ran out
and gave chase to Tom. Grimes upset the soot sack in the new-gravelled
yard, and spoilt it all utterly; but he ran out and gave chase to Tom.
The old steward opened the park gate in such a hurry, that he hung up
his pony's chin upon the spikes, and, for aught I know, it hangs there
still; but he jumped off, and gave chase to Tom. The ploughman left his
horses at the headland, and one jumped over the fence, and pulled the
other into the ditch, plough and all; but he ran on, and gave chase to
Tom. Sir John looked out of his study window (for he was an early old
gentleman) and up at the nurse, and a martin dropped mud in his eye, so
that he had at last to send for the doctor; and yet he ran out, and gave
chase to Tom. The Irishwoman, too, was walking up to the house to beg,--
she must have got round by some byway,--but she threw away her bundle,
and gave chase to Tom likewise. Only my lady did not give chase; for
when she had put her head out of the window, her night-wig fell into the
garden, and she had to ring up her lady's maid, and send her down for it
privately, which quite put her out of the running, so that she came
nowhere, and is consequently not placed.
[Illustration.]
In a word, never was there heard at Hall Place--not even when the fox
was killed in the conservatory, among acres of broken glass, and tons of
smashed flowerpots--such a noise, row, hubbub, babel, shindy,
hullabaloo, and total contempt of dignity, repose, and order, as that
day, when Grimes, the gardener, the groom, the dairymaid, Sir John, the
steward, the ploughman, and the Irishwoman, all ran up the park,
shouting "Stop thief," in the belief that Tom had at least a thousand
pounds' worth of jewels in his empty pockets; and the very magpies and
jays followed Tom up, screaking and screaming, as though he were a
hunted fox, beginning to droop his brush.
And all the while poor Tom paddled up the park with his little bare
feet, like a small black gorilla fleeing to the forest. Alas for him!
there was no big father gorilla therein to take his part--to scratch out
the gardener's inside with one paw, toss the dairymaid into a tree with
another, and wrench off Sir John's head with a third, while he cracked
the groom's skull with his teeth as easily as if it had been a cocoanut
or a paving stone.
Tom, of course, made for the woods. He had never been in a wood in his
life; but he was sharp enough to know that he might hide in a bush, or
swarm up a tree, and, altogether, had more chance there than in the
open.
But when he got into the wood, he found it a very different sort of
place from what he had fancied. He pushed into a thick cover of
rhododendrons, and found himself at once caught in a trap. The boughs
laid hold of his legs and arms, poked him in his face and his stomach,
made him shut his eyes tight (though that was no great loss, for he
could not see at best a yard before his nose); and when he got through
the rhododendrons, the hassock-grass and sedges tumbled him over, and
cut his poor little fingers afterwards most spitefully; the birches
birched him as soundly as if he had been a nobleman at Eton, [Footnote:
Eton is one of the most famous of English public schools. The young
British nobles here meet and associate with the young commoners in the
most democratic manner.] and over the face, too (which is not fair
swishing, as all brave boys will agree).
"I must get out of this," thought Tom, "or I shall stay here till
somebody comes to help me--which is just what I don't want."
But how to get out was the difficult matter. And indeed I don't think he
would ever have got out at all, but have stayed there till the cock-
robins covered him with leaves, if he had not suddenly run his head
against a wall.
Now running your head against a wall is not pleasant, especially if it
is a loose wall, with the stones all set on edge, and a sharp-cornered
one hits you between the eyes and makes you see all manner of beautiful
stars. The stars are very beautiful, certainly, but unfortunately they
go in the twenty-thousandth part of a split second, and the pain which
comes after them does not. And so Tom hurt his head; but he was a brave
boy, and did not mind that a penny. He guessed that over the wall the
cover would end; and up it he went, and over like a squirrel.
And there he was, out on the great grouse moors, which the country folk
called Harthover Fell--[Footnote: FELL is the name given, in parts of
England, to moors, or stretches of high, open country of any sort.]
heather and bog and rock, stretching away and up, up to the very sky.
Now, Tom was a cunning little fellow--as cunning as an old Exmoor
[Footnote: Exmoor is a region in Somersetshire and Devonshire, in
England. It was formerly a forest, but is now a moor, and is a favorite
resort of the deer.] stag. Why not? Though he was but ten years old, he
had lived longer than most stags, and had more wits to start with into
the bargain.
He knew as well as a stag that if he backed he might throw the hounds
out. So the first thing he did when he was over the wall was to make the
neatest double, sharp to his right, and run along under the wall for
nearly half a mile. Meanwhile the gardener and the groom, the dairymaid
and the ploughman, and all the hue and cry together, went on ahead half
a mile in the very opposite direction, and inside the wall, leaving him
a mile off on the outside; while Tom heard their shouts die away in the
woods and chuckled to himself merrily.
At last he came to a dip in the land, and went to the bottom of it, and
then he turned bravely away from the wall and up the moor; for he knew
that he had put a hill between him and his enemies, and could go on
without their seeing him.
But the Irishwoman, alone of them all, had seen which way Tom went. She
had kept ahead of every one the whole time; and yet she neither walked
nor ran. She went along quite smoothly and gracefully, while her feet
twinkled past each other so fast that you could not see which was
foremost; till every one asked the other who the strange woman was; and
all agreed, for want of anything better to say, that she must be in
league with Tom.
But when she came to the plantation, they lost sight of her; and they
could do no less. For she went quietly over the wall after Tom, and
followed him wherever he went. Sir John and the rest saw no more of her;
and out of sight was out of mind.
And now Tom was right away into the heather, over a moor growing more
and more broken and hilly, but not so rough but that little Tom could
jog along well enough, and find time, too, to stare about at the strange
place, which was like a new world to him.
So Tom went on and on, he hardly knew why; but he liked the great, wide,
strange place, and the cool, fresh, bracing air. But he went more and
more slowly as he got higher up the hill; for now the ground grew very
bad indeed. Instead of soft turf and springy heather, he met great
patches of flat limestone rock, just like ill-made pavements, with deep
cracks between the stones and ledges, filled with ferns; so he had to
hop from stone to stone, and now and then he slipped in between, and
hurt his little bare toes, though they were tolerably tough ones; but
still he would go on and up, he could not tell why.
What would Tom have said if he had seen, walking over the moor behind
him, the very same Irishwoman who had taken his part upon the road? But
whether it was that he looked too little behind him, or whether it was
that she kept out of sight behind the rocks and knolls, he never saw
her, though she saw him.
And now he began to get a little hungry, and very thirsty; for he had
run a long way, and the sun had risen high in heaven, and the rock was
as hot as an oven, and the air danced reels over it, as it does over a
limekiln, till everything round seemed quivering and melting in the
glare.
But he could see nothing to eat anywhere, and still less to drink.
So he went on and on, till his head spun round with the heat, and he
thought he heard church bells ringing, a long way off.
"Ah!" he thought, "where there is a church there will be houses and
people; and, perhaps, some one will give me a bit and a sup." So he set
off again, to look for the church; for he was sure that he heard the
bells quite plain.
And so it was; for from the top of the mountain he could see--what could
he not see?
And in a minute more, when he looked round, he stopped again, and said,
"Why, what a big place the world is!"
Behind him, far below, was Harthover, and the dark woods, and the
shining salmon river; and on his left, far below, was the town, and the
smoking chimneys of the collieries; and far, far away, the river widened
to the shining sea; and little white specks, which were ships, lay on
its bosom. Before him lay, spread out like a map, great plains, and
farms, and villages, amid dark knots of trees. They all seemed at his
very feet; but he had sense to see that they were long miles away.
[Illustration.]
And to his right rose moor after moor, hill after hill, till they faded
away, blue into blue sky. But between him and those moors, and really at
his very feet, lay something, to which, as soon as Tom saw it, he
determined to go; for that was the place for him.
A deep, deep green and rocky valley, very narrow, and filled with wood;
but through the wood, hundreds of feet below him, he could see a clear
stream glance. Oh, if he could but get down to that stream! Then, by the
stream, he saw the roof of a little cottage, and a little garden set out
in squares and beds. And there was a tiny little red thing moving in the
garden, no bigger than a fly. As Tom looked down, he saw that it was a
woman in a red petticoat. Ah! perhaps she would give him something to
eat. And there were the church bells ringing again. Surely there must be
a village down there. Well, nobody would know him, or what had happened
at the Place. The news could not have got there yet, even if Sir John
had set all the policemen in the country after him; and he could get
down there in five minutes.
Tom was quite right about the hue and cry not having got thither; for he
had come, without knowing it, the best part of ten miles from Harthover;
but he was wrong about getting down in five minutes, for the cottage was
more than a mile off, and a good thousand feet below.
However, down he went, like a brave little man as he was, though he was
very footsore, and tired, and hungry, and thirsty; while the church
bells rang so loud, he began to think that they must be inside his own
head, and the river chimed and tinkled far below.