CHAPTER VIII AND LAST

Now, as soon as Tom had left Peacepool, he came to the white lap of the

great sea mother, ten thousand fathoms deep; where she makes world-pap

all day long, for the steam giants to knead, and the fire giants to

bake, till it has risen and hardened into mountain-loaves and island-

cakes.

And there Tom was very near being kneaded up in the world-pap, and

turned into a fossil water baby; which would have astonished the

Geological Society of New Zealand some hundreds of thousands of years

hence.

For as he walked along in the silence of the sea twilight, on the soft

white ocean floor, he was aware of a hissing, and a roaring, and a

thumping, and a pumping, as of all the steam engines in the world at

once. And when he came near, the water grew boiling hot; not that that

hurt him in the least; but it also grew as foul as gruel; and every

moment he stumbled over dead shells, and fish, and sharks, and seals,

and whales, which had been killed by the hot water.

And at last he came to the great sea serpent himself, lying dead at the

bottom; and as he was too thick to scramble over, Tom had to walk round

him three quarters of a mile and more, which put him out of his path

sadly; and when he had got round, he came to the place called Stop. And

there he stopped, and just in time.

For he was on the edge of a vast hole in the bottom of the sea, up which

was rushing and roaring clear steam enough to work all the engines in

the world at once; so clear, indeed, that it was quite light at moments,

and Tom could see almost up to the top of the water above, and down

below into the pit for nobody knows how far.

But as soon as he bent his head over the edge, he got such a rap on the

nose from pebbles, that he jumped back again; for the steam, as it

rushed up, rasped away the sides of the hole, and hurled it up into the

sea in a shower of mud and gravel and ashes; and then it spread all

around, and sank again, and covered in the dead fish so fast, that

before Tom had stood there five minutes he was buried in silt up to his

ankles, and began to be afraid that he should have been buried alive.

And perhaps he would have been, but that while he was thinking, the

whole piece of ground on which he stood was torn up and blown upwards,

and away flew Tom a mile up through the sea, wondering what was coming

next.

At last he stopped--thump! and found himself tight in the legs of the

most wonderful bogy which he had ever seen.

It had I don't know how many wings, as big as the sails of a windmill,

and spread out in a ring like them; and with them it hovered over the

steam which rushed up, as a ball hovers over the top of a fountain. And

for every wing before it had a leg below, with a claw like a comb at the

tip, and a nostril at the root; and in the middle it had no stomach and

one eye; and as for its mouth, that was all on one side, as the

madreporiform tubercle in a starfish is. Well, it was a very strange

beast; but no stranger than some dozens which you may see.

"What do you want here," it cried quite peevishly, "getting in my way?"

and it tried to drop Tom; but he held on tight to its claws, thinking

himself safer where he was.

So Tom told him who he was, and what his errand was. And the thing

winked its one eye, and sneered:

"I am too old to be taken in in that way. You are come after gold--I

know you are."

"Gold! What is gold!" And really Tom did not know; but the suspicious

old bogy would not believe him.

But after a while Tom began to understand a little. For, as the vapours

came up out of the hole, the bogy smelt them with his nostrils, and

combed them and sorted them with his combs; and then, when they steamed

up through them against his wings, they were changed into showers and

streams of metal. From one wing fell gold dust, and from another silver,

and from another copper, and from another tin, and from another lead,

and so on, and sank into the soft mud, into veins and cracks, and

hardened there. Whereby it comes to pass that the rocks are full of

metal.

But, all of a sudden, somebody shut off the steam below, and the hole

was left empty in an instant; and then down rushed the water into the

hole, in such a whirlpool that the bogy spun round and round as fast as

a teetotum. But that was all in his day's work, like a fair fall with

the hounds; so all he did was to say to Tom:

"Now is your time, youngster, to get down, if you are in earnest, which

I don't believe."

"You'll soon see," said Tom; and away he went, as bold as Baron

Munchausen, and shot down the rushing cataract like a salmon at

Ballisodare.

And when he got to the bottom, he swam till he was washed on shore safe

upon the Other-end-of-Nowhere; and he found it, to his surprise, as most

other people do, much more like This-end-of-Somewhere than he had been

in the habit of expecting.

There Tom saw ploughs drawing horses, nails driving hammers, birds'

nests taking boys, books making authors, bulls keeping china shops,

monkeys shaving cats, dead dogs drilling live lions, and, in short,

every one set to do something which he had not learnt, because in what

he had learnt, or pretended to learn, he had failed.

On the borders of that island he found Gotham, where the wise men live;

the same who dragged the pond because the moon had fallen into it, and

planted a hedge round the cuckoo, to keep spring all the year. And he

found them bricking up the town gate, because it was so wide that little

folks could not get through.

So he went on, for it was no business of his; only he could not help

saying that in his country if the kitten could not get in at the same

hole as the cat, she might stay outside and mew.

Then Tom came to a very famous island, which was called, in the days of

the great traveler Captain Gulliver, the Isle of Laputa. [Footnote:

Swift describes, in Gulliver's Travels, a flying island, called Laputa.

The inhabitants were quacks, so absorbed in their false science that

they had eyes and ears for nothing else, and were therefore followed

about by servants who "flapped" them with a blown-up bladder, when they

were expected to hear or to see or to say anything.] But Mrs.

Bedonebyasyoudid has named it over again, the Isle of Tomtoddies, all

heads and no bodies.

And when Tom came near it, he heard such a grumbling and grunting and

growling and wailing and weeping and whining that he thought people must

be ringing little pigs, or cropping puppies' ears, or drowning kittens;

but when he came nearer still, he began to hear words among the noise;

which was the Tomtoddies' song which they sing morning and evening, and

all night too, to their great idol Examination--

"I CAN'T LEARN MY LESSON; THE EXAMINER'S COMING!"

And that was the only song which they knew.

And when Tom got on shore the first thing he saw was a great pillar, on

one side of which was inscribed, "Playthings not allowed here;" at which

he was so shocked that he would not stay to see what was written on the

other side. Then he looked round for the people of the island; but

instead of men, women, and children, he found nothing but turnips and

radishes, beets and mangold wurzel, without a single green leaf among

them, and half of them burst and decayed, with toadstools growing out of

them. Those which were left began crying to Tom, in half a dozen

different languages at once, and all of them badly spoken, "I can't

learn my lesson; do come and help me!"

"And what good on earth would it do you if I did help you?" quoth Tom.

Well, they didn't know that; all they knew was the examiner was coming.

Then Tom stumbled on the hugest and softest nimblecomequick turnip you

ever saw filling a hole in a crop of swedes, and it cried to him, "Can

you tell me anything at all about anything you like?"

"About what?" says Tom.

"About anything you like; for as fast as I learn things I forget them

again. So my mamma says that my intellect is not adapted for methodic

science, and says that I must go in for general information."

Tom told him that he did not know general information, nor any officers

in the army; only he had a friend once that went for a drummer; but he

could tell him a great many strange things which he had seen in his

travels.

So he told him prettily enough, while the poor turnip listened very

carefully; and the more he listened, the more he forgot, and the more

water ran out of him.

Tom thought he was crying; but it was only his poor brains running away,

from being worked so hard; and as Tom talked, the unhappy turnip

streamed down all over with juice, and split and shrank till nothing was

left of him but rind and water; whereat Tom ran away in a fright, for he

thought he might be taken up for killing the turnip.

But, on the contrary, the turnip's parents were highly delighted, and

considered him a saint and a martyr, and put up a long inscription over

his tomb about his wonderful talents, early development, and

unparalleled precocity. Were they not a foolish couple? But there was

still a more foolish couple next to them, who were beating a wretched

little radish, no bigger than my thumb, for sullenness and obstinacy and

wilful stupidity, and never knew that the reason why it couldn't learn

or hardly even speak was, that there was a great worm inside it eating

out all its brains. But even they are no foolisher than some hundred

score of papas and mammas, who fetch the rod when they ought to fetch a

new toy, and send to the dark cupboard instead of to the doctor.

Tom was so puzzled and frightened with all he saw, that he was longing

to ask the meaning of it; and at last he stumbled over a respectable old

stick lying half covered with earth. But a very stout and worthy stick

it was, for it belonged to good Roger Ascham [Footnote: Roger Ascham was

a famous English scholar and writer of the sixteenth century. He was

teacher of languages to Princess, afterward Queen, Elizabeth, and later,

was Latin secretary to both Queen Mary and Queen Elizabeth.] in old

time.

"You see," said the stick, "they were as pretty little children once as

you could wish to see, and might have been so still if they had been

only left to grow up like human beings, and then handed over to me; but

their foolish fathers and mothers, instead of letting them pick flowers,

and make dirt-pies, and get birds' nests, and dance round the gooseberry

bush, as little children should, kept them always at lessons, working,

working, working, learning week-day lessons all week-days, and Sunday

lessons all Sunday, and weekly examinations every Saturday, and monthly

examinations every month, and yearly examinations every year, everything

seven times over, as if once was not enough, and enough as good as a

feast--till their brains grew big, and their bodies grew small, and they

were all changed into turnips, with little but water inside; and still

their foolish parents actually pick the leaves off them as fast as they

grow, lest they should have anything green about them."

"Ah!" said Tom, "if Mrs. Doasyouwouldbedoneby knew of it she would send

them a lot of tops, and balls, and marbles, and nine-pins, and make them

all as jolly as sand-boys."

"It would be no use," said the stick. "They can't play now, if they

tried. Don't you see how their legs have turned to roots and grown into

the ground, by never taking any exercise, but sapping and moping always

in the same place.

"But here comes the Examiner-of-all-Examiners. So you had better get

away, I warn you, or he will examine you and your dog into the bargain,

and set him to examine all the other dogs, and you to examine all the

other water babies. There is no escaping out of his hands, for his nose

is nine thousand miles long, and can go down chimneys, and through

keyholes, upstairs, downstairs, in my lady's chamber, examining all

little boys, and the little boys' tutors likewise. But when he is

thrashed--so Mrs. Bedonebyasyoudid has promised me--I shall have the

thrashing of him; and if I don't lay it on with a will it's a pity."

Tom went off, but rather slowly and surlily; for he was somewhat minded

to face this same Examiner-of-all-Examiners, who came striding among the

poor turnips, binding heavy burdens and grievous to be borne, and laying

them on little children's shoulders, like the Scribes and Pharisees of

old, and not touching the same with one of his fingers; for he had

plenty of money, and a fine house to live in; which was more than the

poor turnips had.

And next he came to Oldwisefabledom, where the folks were all heathens,

and worshipped a howling ape.

And there he found a little boy sitting in the middle of the road, and

crying bitterly.

"What are you crying for?" said Tom.

"Because I am not so frightened as I could wish to be."

"Not frightened? You are a queer little chap; but, if you want to be

frightened, here goes--Boo!"

"Ah," said the little boy, "that is very kind of you; but I don't feel

that it has made any impression."

Tom offered to upset him, punch him, stamp on him, fettle him over the

head with a brick, or anything else whatsoever which would give him the

slightest comfort.

But he only thanked Tom very civilly, in fine long words which he had

heard other folk use, and which, therefore, he thought were fit and

proper to use himself; and cried on till his papa and mamma came.

Then Tom came to a very quiet place, called Leaveheavenalone. And there

the sun was drawing water out of the sea to make steam-threads, and the

wind was twisting them up to make cloud-patterns, till they had worked

between them the loveliest wedding veil of Chantilly lace, and hung it

up in their own Crystal Palace for any one to buy who could afford it;

while the good old sea never grudged, for she knew they would pay her

back honestly. So the sun span, and the wind wove, and all went well

with the great steam loom; as is likely, considering--and considering--

and considering---

And at last, after innumerable adventures, each more wonderful than the

last, Tom saw before him a huge building.

He walked towards it, wondering what it was, and having a strange fancy

that he might find Mr. Grimes inside it, till he saw running toward him,

and shouting "Stop!" three or four people, who, when they came nearer,

were nothing else than policemen's truncheons, running along without

legs or arms.

Tom was not astonished. He was long past that. Neither was he

frightened; for he had been doing no harm.

So he stopped; and when the foremost truncheon came up and asked his

business, he showed Mother Carey's pass; and the truncheon looked at it

in the oddest fashion; for he had one eye in the middle of his upper

end, so that when he looked at anything, being quite stiff, he had to

slope himself, and poke himself, till it was a wonder why he did not

tumble over; but, being quite full of the spirit of justice (as all

policemen, and their truncheons, ought to be), he was always in a

position of stable equilibrium, whichever way he put himself.

"All right--pass on," said he at last. And then he added: "I had better

go with you, young man." And Tom had no objection, for such company was

both respectable and safe; so the truncheon coiled its thong neatly

round its handle, to prevent tripping itself up--for the thong had got

loose in running--and marched on by Tom's side.

"Why have you no policeman to carry you?" asked Tom after a while.

"Because we are not like those clumsy-made truncheons in the land world,

which cannot go with-out having a whole man to carry them about. We do

our own work for ourselves; and do it very well, though I say it who

should not."

"Then why have you a thong to your handle?" asked Tom.

"To hang ourselves up by, of course, when we are off duty."

Tom had got his answer, and had no more to say, till they came up to the

great iron door of the prison. And there the truncheon knocked twice,

with its own head.

A wicket in the door opened, and out looked a tremendous old brass

blunderbuss charged up to the muzzle with slugs, who was the porter; and

Tom started back a little at the sight of him.

"What case is this?" he asked in a deep voice, out of his broad bell

mouth.

"If you please, sir, it is no case; only a young gentleman from her

ladyship, who wants to see Grimes, the master sweep."

"Grimes?" said the blunderbuss. And he pulled in his muzzle, perhaps to

look over his prison lists.

"Grimes is up chimney No. 345," he said from inside. "So the young

gentleman had better go on to the roof."

Tom looked up at the enormous wall, which seemed at least ninety miles

high, and wondered how he should ever get up; but when he hinted that to

the truncheon, it settled the matter in a moment. For it whisked round,

and gave him such a shove behind as sent him up to the roof in no time,

with his little dog under his arm.

And there he walked along the leads, till he met another truncheon, and

told him his errand.

"Very good," it said. "Come along; but it will be of no use. He is the

most unremorseful, hard-hearted, foul-mouthed fellow I have in charge;

and thinks about nothing but beer and pipes, which are not allowed here,

of course."

So they walked along over the leads, and very sooty they were, and Tom

thought the chimneys must want sweeping very much. But he was surprised

to see that the soot did not stick to his feet, or dirty them in the

least. Neither did the live coals, which were lying about in plenty,

burn him; for he was a water baby.

And at last they came to chimney No. 345. Out of the top of it, his head

and shoulders just showing, stuck poor Mr. Grimes, so sooty, and

bleared, and ugly, that Tom could hardly bear to look at him. And in his

mouth was a pipe; but it was not alight, though he was pulling at it

with all his might.

"Attention, Mr. Grimes," said the truncheon; "here is a gentleman come

to see you."

But Mr. Grimes only said bad words, and kept grumbling, "My pipe won't

draw. My pipe won't draw."

"Keep a civil tongue, and attend!" said the truncheon; and popped up

just like Punch, hitting Grimes such a crack over the head with itself,

that his brains rattled inside like a dried walnut in its shell. He

tried to get his hands out, and rub the place; but he could not, for

they were stuck fast in the chimney. Now he was forced to attend.

"Hey!" he said, "why, it's Tom! I suppose you have come here to laugh at

me, you spiteful little atomy?"

Tom assured him he had not, but only wanted to help him.

"I don't want anything except beer, and that I can't get; and a light to

this bothering pipe, and that I can't get either."

"I'll get you one," said Tom; and he took up a live coal (there were

plenty lying about) and put it to Grimes' pipe; but it went out

instantly.

"It's no use," said the truncheon, leaning itself up against the chimney

and looking on. "I tell you, it is no use. His heart is so cold that it

freezes everything that comes near him, You will see that presently,

plain enough."

"Oh, of course, it's my fault. Everything's always my fault," said

Grimes. "Now don't go to hit me again" (for the truncheon started

upright, and looked very wicked); "you know, if my arms were only free,

you daren't hit me then."

The truncheon leant back against the chimney, and took no notice of the

personal insult, like a well-trained policeman as it was, though it was

ready enough to avenge any transgression against morality or order.

"But can't I help you in any other way? Can't I help you to get out of

this chimney?" said Tom.

"No," interposed the truncheon; "he has come to the place where

everybody must help himself; and he will find it out, I hope, before he

has done with me."

"Oh, yes," said Grimes, "of course it's me. Did I ask to be brought here

into the prison? Did I ask to be set to sweep your foul chimneys? Did I

ask to have lighted straw put under me to make me go up? Did I ask to

stick fast in the very first chimney of all, because it was so

shamefully clogged up with soot? Did I ask to stay here--I don't know

how long--a hundred years, I do believe, and never get my pipe, nor my

beer, nor nothing fit for a beast, let alone a man?"

"No," answered a solemn voice behind. "No more did Tom, when you behaved

to him in the very same way."

It was Mrs. Bedonebyasyoudid. And when the truncheon saw her, it started

bolt upright--Attention!--and made such a low bow, that if it had not

been full of the spirit of justice, it must have tumbled on its end, and

probably hurt its one eye. And Tom made his bow too.

"Oh, ma'am," he said, "don't think about me; that's all past and gone,

and good times and bad times and all times pass over. But may not I help

poor Mr. Grimes? Mayn't I try and get some of these bricks away, that he

may move his arms?"

"You may try, of course," she said.

So Tom pulled and tugged at the bricks, but he could not move one. And

then he tried to wipe Mr. Grimes' face, but the soot would not come off.

"Oh, dear!" he said. "I have come all this way, through all these

terrible places, to help you, and now I am of no use at all."

"You had best leave me alone," said Grimes; "you are a good-natured,

forgiving little chap, and that's truth; but you'd best be off. The

hail's coming on soon, and it will beat the eyes out of your little

head."

"What hail?"

"Why, hail that falls every evening here; and till it comes close to me,

it's like so much warm rain; but then it comes to hail over my head, and

knocks me about like small shot."

"That hail will never come any more," said the strange lady. "I have

told you before what it was. It was your mother's tears, those which she

shed when she prayed for you by her bedside; but your cold heart froze

it into hail. But she is gone to heaven now, and will weep no more for

her graceless son."

Then Grimes was silent awhile; and then he looked very sad.

"So my old mother's gone, and I never there to speak to her! Ah! a good

woman she was, and might have been a happy one, in her little school

there in Vendale, if it hadn't been for me and my bad ways."

"Did she keep the school at Vendale?" asked Tom. And then he told Grimes

all the story of his going to her house, and how she could not abide the

sight of a chimney-sweep, and then how kind she was, and how he turned

into a water baby.

"Ah!" said Grimes, "good reason she had to hate the sight of a chimney-

sweep. I ran away from her and took up with the sweeps, and never let

her know where I was, nor sent her a penny to help her, and now it's too

late--too late!" said Mr. Grimes.

And he began crying and blubbering like a great baby, till his pipe

dropped out of his mouth, and broke all to bits.

"Oh, dear, if I was but a little chap in Vendale again, to see the clear

beck, and the apple orchard, and the yew hedge, how different I would go

on! But it's too late now. So you go along, you kind little chap, and

don't stand to look at a man crying, that's old enough to be your

father, and never feared the face of man, nor of worse neither. But I'm

beat now, and beat I must be. I've made my bed, and I must lie on it.

Foul I would be, and foul I am. as an Irishwoman said to me once; and

little I heeded it. It's all my own fault: but it's too late." And he

cried so bitterly that Tom began crying too.

"Never too late," said the fairy, in such a strange soft, new voice that

Tom looked up at her; and she was so beautiful for the moment, that Tom

half fancied she was her sister.

No more was it too late. For as poor Grimes cried and blubbered on, his

own tears did what his mother's could not do, and Tom's could not do,

and nobody's on earth could do for him; for they washed the soot off his

face and off his clothes; and then they washed the mortar away from

between the bricks; and the chimney crumbled down; and Grimes began to

get out of it.

Up jumped the truncheon, and was going to hit him on the crown a

tremendous thump, and drive him down again like a cork into a bottle.

But the strange lady put it aside.

"Will you obey me if I give you a chance?"

"As you please, ma'am. You're stronger than me--that I know too well,

and wiser than me, I know too well also. And as for being my own master,

I've fared ill enough with that as yet. So whatever your ladyship

pleases to order me; for I'm beat, and that's the truth."

"Be it so then--you may come out. But remember, disobey me again, and

into a worse place still you go."

"I beg pardon, ma'am, but I never disobeyed you that I know of. I never

had the honour of setting eyes upon you till I came to these ugly

quarters."

"Never saw me? Who said to you, 'Those that will, be foul, foul they

will be'?"

Grimes looked up; and Tom looked up too; for the voice was that of the

Irishwoman who met them the day that they went out together to

Harthover. "I gave you your warning then, but you gave it yourself a

thousand times before and since. Every bad word that you said--every

cruel and mean thing that you did--every time that you got tipsy--every

day that you went dirty--you were disobeying me, whether you knew it or

not."

"If I'd only known, ma'am---"

"You knew well enough that you were disobeying something, though you did

not know it was me. But come out and take your chance. Perhaps it may be

your last."

So Grimes stepped out of the chimney, and really, if it had not been for

the scars on his face, he looked as clean and respectable as a master

sweep need look.

"Take him away," she said to the truncheon, "and give him his ticket of

leave."

"And what is he to do, ma'am?"

"Get him to sweep out the crater of Etna; he will find some very steady

men working out their time there, who will teach him his business: but

mind, if that crater gets choked again, and there is an earthquake in

consequence, bring them all to me, and I shall investigate the case very

severely."

So the truncheon marched off Mr. Grimes, looking as meek as a drowned

worm.

And for aught I know, or do not know, he is sweeping the crater of Etna

to this very day.

"And now," said the fairy to Tom, "your work here is done. You may as

well go back again."

"I should he glad enough to go," said Tom, "but how am I to get up that

great hole again, now the steam has stopped blowing?"

"I will take you up the back stairs, but I must bandage your eyes first;

for I never allow anybody to see those back stairs of mine."

"I am sure I shall not tell anybody about them, ma'am, if you bid me

not."

"Aha! So you think, my little man. But you would soon forget your

promise if you got back into the land world. I never put things into

little folks' heads which are but too likely to come there of

themselves. So come--now I must bandage your eyes."

So she tied the bandage on his eyes with one hand, and with the other

she took it off.

"Now," she said, "you are safe up the stairs." Tom opened his eyes very

wide, and his mouth, too; for he had not, as he thought, moved a single

step. But, when he looked round him, there could be no doubt that he was

safe up the back stairs, whatsoever they may be, which no man is going

to tell you, for the plain reason that no man knows.

The first thing which Tom saw was the black cedars, high and sharp

against the rosy dawn; and Saint Brandan's Isle reflected double in the

still, broad, silver sea. The wind sang softly in the cedars, and the

water sang among the caves: the sea birds sang as they streamed out into

the ocean, and the land birds as they built among the boughs; and the

air was so full of song that it stirred Saint Brandan and her hermits,

as they slumbered in the shade; and they moved their good old lips, and

sang their morning hymn amid their dreams. But among all the songs one

came across the water more sweet and clear than all; for it was the song

of a young girl's voice.

And what was the song which she sang? Ah, my little man, I am too old to

sing that song, and you too young to understand it. But have patience,

and keep your eye single, and your hands clean, and you will learn some

day to sing it yourself, without needing any man to teach you.

And as Tom neared the island, there sat upon a rock the most graceful

creature that ever was seen, looking down, with her chin upon her hand,

and paddling with her feet in the water. And when they came to her she

looked up, and behold, it was Ellie.

"Oh, Miss Ellie," said he, "how you are grown!"

"Oh, Tom," said she, "how you are grown, too!"

And no wonder; they were both quite grown up--he into a tall man, and

she into a beautiful woman.

"Perhaps I may be grown," she said. "I have had time enough; for I have

been sitting here waiting for you many a hundred years, till I thought

you were never coming."

"Many a hundred years?" thought Tom; but he had seen so much in his

travels that he had quite given up being astonished; and, indeed, he

could think of nothing but Ellie. So he stood and looked at Ellie, and

Ellie looked at him; and they liked the employment so much that they

stood and looked for seven years more, and neither spoke nor stirred.

At last they heard the fairy say, "Attention, children. Are you never

going to look at me again?"

"We have been looking at you all this while," they said. And so they

thought they had been.

"Then look at me once more," she said.

They looked--and both of them cried out at once, "Oh, who are you, after

all?"

"You are our dear Mrs. Doasyouwouldbedoneby."

"No, you are good Mrs. Bedonebyasyoudid; but you are grown quite

beautiful now!"

"To you," said the fairy. "But look again."

"You are Mother Carey," said Tom, in a very low, solemn voice; for he

had found out something which made him very happy, and yet frightened

him more than all that he had ever seen.

"But you are grown quite young again."

"To you," said the fairy. "Look again."

"You are the Irishwoman who met me the day I went to Harthover!"

And when they looked she was neither of them, and yet all of them at

once.

"My name is written in my eyes, if you have eyes to see it there."

And they looked into her great, deep, soft eyes, and they changed again

and again into every hue, as the light changes in a diamond.

"Now read my name," said she, at last.

And her eyes flashed, for one moment, clear, white, blazing light; but

the children could not read her name; for they were dazzled, and hid

their faces in their hands.

"Not yet, young things, not yet," said she, smiling; and then she turned

to Ellie.

"You may take him home with you now on Sundays, Ellie. He has won his

spurs in the great battle, and become fit to go with you and be a man,

because he has done the thing he did not like."

So Tom went home with Ellie on Sundays, and sometimes on week-days, too;

and he is now a great man of science, and can plan railroads, and steam

engines, and electric telegraphs, and rifled guns, and so forth; and

knows everything about everything, except why a hen's egg doesn't turn

into a crocodile, and two or three other little things. And all this

from what he learnt when he was a water baby, underneath the sea.

"And of course Tom married Ellie?"

My dear child, what a silly notion! Don't you know that no one ever

marries in a fairy tale, under the rank of a prince or a princess?

"And Tom's dog?"

Oh, you may see him any clear night in July; for the old dog star was so

worn out by the last three hot summers that there have been no dog days

since; so that they had to take him down and put Tom's dog up in his

place. Therefore, as new brooms sweep clean, we may hope for some warm

weather this year. And that is the end of my story.

MORAL

And now, my dear little man, what should we learn from this parable?

We should learn thirty-seven or thirty-nine things, I am not exactly

sure which; but one thing, at least, we may learn, and that is this--

when we see efts in the pond, never to throw stones at them, or catch

them with crooked pins. For these efts are nothing else but the water

babies who are stupid and dirty, and will not learn their lessons and

keep themselves clean; and therefore, their skulls grow flat, their jaws

grow out, and their brains grow small, and their tails grow long, and

their skins grow dirty and spotted, and they never get into the clear

rivers, much less into the great wide sea, but hang about in dirty

ponds, and live in the mud, and eat worms, as they deserve to do.

But that is no reason why you should ill-use them; but only why you

should pity them, and be kind to them, and hope that some day they will

wake up, and be ashamed of their nasty, dirty, lazy, stupid life, and

try to amend, and become something better once more. For, perhaps, if

they do so, then after 379,423 years, nine months, thirteen days, two

hours, and twenty-one minutes, if they work very hard and wash very hard

all that time, their brains may grow bigger, and their jaws grow

smaller, and their tails wither off, and they will turn into water

babies again, and perhaps after that into land babies; and after that

perhaps into grown men.

Meanwhile, do you learn your lessons, and thank God that you have plenty

of cold water to wash in; and wash in it too, like a true Englishman.

And then, if my story is not true, something better is; and if I am not

quite right, still you will be, as long as you stick to hard work and

cold water.

But remember always, as I told you at first, that this is all a fairy

tale, and only fun and pretence; and, therefore, you are not to believe

a word of it, even if it is true.

THE MILKMAID

By Jeffreys Taylor

A milkmaid, who poised a full pail on her head,

Thus mused on her prospects in life, it is said:

"Let me see,--I should think that this milk will procure

One hundred good eggs, or fourscore, to be sure.

"Well then,--stop a bit,--it must not be forgotten,

Some of these may be broken, and some may be rotten;

But if twenty for accident should be detached,

It will leave me just sixty sound eggs to be hatched.

"Well, sixty sound eggs,--no, sound chickens, I mean:

Of these some may die,--we'll suppose seventeen;

Seventeen! not so many,--say ten at the most,

Which will leave fifty chickens to boil or to roast.

"But then there's their barley; how much will they need?

Why, they take but one grain at a time when they feed,--

So that's a mere trifle; now then, let us see,

At a fair market price how much money there'll be.

"Six shillings a pair--five--four--three-and-six--

To prevent all mistakes, that low price I will fix;

Now what will that make? fifty chickens, I said,--

Fifty times three-and-sixpence--I'LL ASK BROTHER NED.

"Oh, but stop,--three-and-sixpence a PAIR I must sell 'em;

Well, a pair is a couple,--now then let us tell 'em;

A couple in fifty will go (my poor brain!)

Why, just a score times, and five pair will remain.

"Twenty-five pair of fowls--now how tiresome it is

That I can't reckon up so much money as this!

Well, there's no use in trying, so let's give a guess,--

I'll say twenty pounds, AND IT CAN'T BE NO LESS.

"Twenty pounds, I am certain, will buy me a cow,

Thirty geese, and two turkeys,--eight pigs and a sow;

Now if these turn out well, at the end of the year,

I shall fill both my pockets with guineas, 'tis clear."

Forgetting her burden, when this she had said,

The maid superciliously tossed up her head:

When, alas for her prospects! her milk-pail descended,

And so all her schemes for the future were ended.

This moral, I think, may be safely attached,--

"Reckon not on your chickens before they are hatched."

This amusing little poem may be made to seem even funnier if we stop to

think what an absurd little milkmaid she really was! Let us ask

ourselves a few questions:

How many quarts of milk were probably in the pail? How many dozen eggs

in a hundred? What is milk worth a quart? What are eggs worth a dozen?

Was she carrying enough milk to buy a hundred, or even fourscore, good

eggs?

Does a farmer count on having sixty out of eighty eggs hatch

successfully? If he has sixty chickens hatched, can he count with

certainty on fifty growing big enough to boil or roast?

Is it true that the cost of the grain to feed them is a mere trifle?

How much is an English shilling in our money? Is a dollar and a half a

pair too much to expect for good chickens? Is eighty-seven and a half

cents too small a price for a pair? Is twenty pounds too much or too

little for twenty-five pairs of chickens at three shillings and sixpence

per pair?

If she could get twenty pounds for her chickens, could she buy a cow,

thirty geese, two turkeys and a sow with a litter of eight pigs for the

money?

HOLGER DANSKE

By Hans Christian Andersen

NOTE.--The first paragraphs of this story contain an old Danish legend

which Hans Christian Andersen uses very skilfully. We can imagine that

the story would mean a great deal more to boys of Denmark than it does

to us, for they would be a great deal more familiar with the people

referred to than we are; but there is so much in the story that is not

confined to Denmark, and it is told in such a fascinating way, that even

the boys of the United States will find it interesting.

In Denmark there lies a castle named Kronenburgh. It lies close by the

Oer Sound, where the ships pass through by hundreds every day--English,

Russian, and likewise Prussian ships. And they salute the old castle

with cannons--'Boom!' And the castle answers with a 'Boom!' for that's

what the cannons say instead of 'Good day' and 'Thank you!' In winter no

ships sail there, for the whole sea is covered with ice quite across to

the Swedish coast; but it has quite the look of a highroad. There wave

the Danish flag and the Swedish flag, and Danes and Swedes say 'Good

day' and 'Thank you!' to each other, not with cannons, but with a

friendly grasp of the hand; and one gets white bread and biscuits from

the other--for strange fare tastes best.

"But the most beautiful of all is the old Kronenburgh; and here it is

that Holger Danske sits in the deep, dark cellar, where nobody goes. He

is clad in iron and steel, and leans his head on his strong arm; his

long beard hangs down over the marble table, and has grown into it. He

sleeps and dreams, but in his dreams he sees everything that happens up

there in Denmark. Every Christmas Eve comes an angel, and tells him that

what he has dreamed is right, and that he may go to sleep in quiet, for

that Denmark is not yet in any real danger; but when once such a danger

comes, then old Holger Danske will rouse himself, so that the table

shall burst when he draws out his beard! Then he will come forth and

strike, so that it shall be heard in all the countries in the world."

An old grandfather sat and told his little grandson all this about

Holger Danske; and the little boy knew that what his grandfather told

him was true. And while the old man sat and told his story, he carved an

image which was to represent Holger Danske, and to be fastened to the

prow of a ship; for the old grandfather was a carver of figureheads,

that is, one who cuts out the figures fastened to the front of ships,

from which every ship is named. And here he had cut out Holger Danske,

who stood there proudly with his long beard, and held the broad battle-

sword in one hand, while with the other he leaned upon the Danish arms.

And the old grandfather told him so much about distinguished men and

women, that it appeared at last to the little grandson as if he knew as

much as Holger Danske himself, who, after all, could only dream; and

when the little fellow was in his bed, he thought so much of it, that he

actually pressed his chin against the coverlet, and fancied he had a

long beard that had grown fast to it.

But the old grandfather remained sitting at his work, and carved away at

the last part of it; and this was the Danish coat of arms. When he had

finished, he looked at the whole, and thought of all he had read and

heard, and that he had told this evening to the little boy; and he

nodded, and wiped his spectacles, and put them on again, and said:

"Yes, in my time Holger Danske will probably not come; but the boy in

the bed yonder may get to see him, and be there when the struggle really

comes."

And the good old grandfather nodded again; and the more he looked at

Holger Danske, the more plain did it become to him that it was a good

image he had carved. It seemed really to gain color, and the armor

appeared to gleam like iron and steel; the hearts in the Danish arms

became redder and redder, and the lions with the golden crowns on their

heads leaped up. [Footnote: The Danish arms consist of three lions and

nine hearts.]

"That's the most beautiful coat of arms there is in the world!" said the

old man. "The lions are strength, and the heart is gentleness and love!"

And he looked at the uppermost lion, and thought of King Canute, who

bound great England to the throne of Denmark; and he looked at the

second lion, and thought of Waldemar, who united Denmark and conquered

the Wendish lands; and he glanced at the third lion, and remembered

Margaret, who united Denmark, Sweden and Norway. But while he looked at

the red hearts, they gleamed more brightly than before; they became

flames, and his heart followed each of them.

[Illustration: HOLGER DANSKE]

The first heart led him into a dark, narrow prison; there sat a

prisoner, a beautiful woman, the daughter of King Christian IV, Eleanor

Ulfeld; [Footnote: This princess was the wife of Corfitz Ulfeld, who was

accused of high treason. Her only crime was the most faithful love to

her unhappy consort; but she was compelled to pass twenty-two years in a

horrible dungeon, until her persecutor, Queen Sophia Amelia, was dead.]

and the flame, which was shaped like a rose, attached itself to her

bosom and blossomed, so that it became one with the heart of her, the

noblest and best of all Danish women.

And his spirit followed the second flame, which led him out upon the

sea, where the cannons thundered and the ships lay shrouded in smoke;

and the flame fastened itself in the shape of a ribbon of honor on the

breast of Hvitfeld, as he blew himself and his ship into the air, that

he might save the fleet.[Footnote: In the naval battle in Kjoge Bay

between the Danes and the Swedes, in 1710, Hvitfeld's ship, the

Danebrog, took fire. To save the town of Kjoge, and the Danish fleet,

which was being driven by the wind toward his vessel, he blew himself

and his whole crew into the air.]

And the third flame led him to the wretched huts of Greenland, where the

preacher Hans Egede [Footnote: Hans Egede went to Greenland in 1721, and

toiled there during fifteen years among incredible hardships and

privations. Not only did he spread Christianity, but exhibited in

himself a remarkable example of a Christian man.] wrought, with love in

every word and deed; the flame was a star on his breast, another heart

in the Danish arms.

And the spirit of the old grandfather flew on before the waving flames,

for his spirit knew whither the flames desired to go. In the humble room

of the peasant woman stood Frederick VI., writing his name with chalk on

the beam.[Footnote: On a journey on the west coast of Jutland, the King

visited an old woman. When he had already quitted her house, the woman

ran after him, and begged him, as a remembrance, to write his name upon

a beam; the King turned back, and complied. During his whole lifetime he

felt and worked for the peasant class; therefore the Danish peasants

begged to be allowed to carry his coffin to the royal vault at

Roeskilde, four Danish miles from Copenhagen.] The flame trembled on his

breast, and trembled in his heart; in the peasant's lowly room his

heart, too, became a heart in the Danish arms. And the old grandfather

dried his eyes, for he had known King Frederick with the silvery locks

and honest blue eyes, and had lived for him; he folded his hands, and

looked in silence straight before him.

Then came the daughter-in-law of the old grandfather, and said it was

late, and he ought now to rest; for the supper table was spread.

"But it is beautiful, what you have done, grandfather!" said she.

"Holger Danske, and all our old coat of arms! It seems to me just as if

I had seen that face before!"

"No, that can scarcely be," replied the old grandfather; "but I have

seen it, and I have tried to carve it in wood as I have kept it in my

memory. It was when the English lay in front of the wharf, on the Danish

2d of April [Footnote: On the 2d of April, 1801, occurred the naval

battle between the Danes and the English, under Sir Hyde Parker and

Nelson.] when we showed that we were old Danes. In the Denmark, on board

which I was, in Steen Bille's squadron, I had a man at my side--it

seemed as if the bullets were afraid of him! Merrily he sang old songs,

and shot and fought as if he were something more than a man. I remember

his face yet; but whence he came, and whither he went, I know not--

nobody knows. I have often thought he might have been old Holger Danske

himself, who had swum down from the Kronenburgh, and aided us in the

hour of danger; that was my idea, and there stands his picture."

And the statue threw its great shadow up against the wall, and even over

part of the ceiling; it looked as though the real Holger Danske were

standing behind it, for the shadow moved, but this might have been

because the flame of the candle did not burn steadily.

And the daughter-in-law kissed the old grandfather, and led him to the

great armchair by the table; and she and her husband, who was the son of

the old man, and father of the little boy in bed, sat and ate their

supper; and the grandfather spoke of the Danish lions and of the Danish

hearts, of strength and of gentleness; and quite clearly did he explain

that there was another strength besides the power that lies in the

sword; and he pointed to the shelf on which were the old books, where

stood the plays of Kolberg, which had been read so often, for they were

very amusing; one could almost fancy one recognized the people of bygone

days in them.

"See, he knew how to strike, too," said the grandfather; "he scourged

the foolishness and prejudice of the people so long as he could." And

the grandfather nodded at the mirror, above which stood the calendar,

with the "Round Tower" [Footnote: The astronomical observatory at

Copenhagen.] on it, and said, "Tycho Brahe was also one who used the

sword, not to cut into flesh and bone, but to build up a plainer way

among all the stars of heaven. And then HE, whose father belonged to my

calling, the son of the figurehead carver, he whom we have ourselves

seen, with his silver hairs and his broad shoulders, he whose name is

spoken of in all lands! Yes, HE was a sculptor; _I_ am only a carver.

Yes, Holger Danske may come in many forms, so that one hears in every

country of Denmark's strength. Shall we now drink the health of Bertel?"

[Footnote: Bertel Thorwaldsen, the great Danish sculptor.]

[Illustration: THE FIGUREHEAD]

But the little lad in the bed saw plainly the old Kronenburgh, with the

Oer Sound, and the real Holger Danske, who sat deep below, with his

beard grown through the marble table, dreaming of all that happens up

here. Holger Danske also dreamed of the little, humble room where the

carver sat; he heard all that passed, and nodded in his sleep, and said:

"Yes, remember me, ye Danish folk; remember me. I shall come in the hour

of need."

And without, by the Kronenburgh, shone the bright day, and the wind

carried the note of the hunting horn over from the neighboring land; the

ship sailed past, and saluted, "Boom! boom!" and from the Kronenburgh

came the reply, "Boom! boom!" But Holger Danske did not awake, however

loudly they shot, for it was only "Good day" and "Thank you!"

There must be another kind of shooting before he awakes; but he will

awake, for there is faith in Holger Danske.

Can you see Holger Danske "clad in iron and steel?" Where have you seen

a picture of such clothing? Is it not curious that his beard is said to

have grown into the marble? He must have been sitting there for many

centuries for such a thing to happen! Do you not understand that the

little boy did not KNOW that Holger Danske was in the deep cellar, but

merely believed it to be true? If so, why does the story say he KNEW it?

When you read that the Danish Arms consist of "three lions and nine

hearts," what do you see? Has the United States any arms? What are they?

Do you know a legend about King Canute and the waves of the sea? Can you

find out anything more about Waldemar and Margaret?

Do you think the man whose face was carved into a figurehead was really

Holger Danske? Do you think it possible that the grandfather could mean

that every brave man who fights for his country is a Holger Danske? Can

you imagine the great figure of Holger Danske throwing its shadow on the

wall and seeming to move about in the candle light? Does the grandfather

believe that such heroes can do other things than fight?

What do you know about Thorwaldsen? Did you ever see a picture of his

beautiful statue of Christ? Did the little boy see any other Holger

Danske than the one whose beard was grown into the marble table?

Has a Holger ever come to save this United States from great danger?

Would you call Washington and Longfellow and Hawthorne, Holgers? Why?

Can you name a few men whom the grandfather, had he been an American,

might have said were Holgers? Do you not believe that if the people of

the United States need a great man he will be forthcoming if we have

faith that he will come?

Do you not think that the little Danish boy, by his dreaming about

Holger Danske, might have come to be the very one to aid his country

most? Is it worth while for each of us to try to be a Holger?

WHAT THE OLD MAN DOES IS ALWAYS RIGHT

By Hans Christian Andersen

I will tell you the story which was told to me when I was a little boy.

Every time I thought of the story it seemed to me to become more and

more charming; for it is with stories as it is with many people--they

become better as they grow older.

I take it for granted that you have been in the country, and have seen a

very old farmhouse with a thatched roof, and mosses and small plants

growing wild upon the thatch. There is a stork's nest on the summit of

the gable; for we can't do without the stork. The walls of the house are

sloping, and the windows are low, and only one of the latter is made so

that it will open. The baking-oven sticks out of the wall like a little

fat body. The elder tree hangs over the paling, and beneath its

branches, at the foot of the paling, is a pool of water in which a few

ducks are disporting themselves. There is a yard dog, too, who barks at

all comers.

Just such a farmhouse stood out in the country; and in this house dwelt

an old couple--a peasant and his wife. Small as was their property,

there was one article among it that they could do without--a horse, that

lived on the grass it found by the side of the highroad. The old peasant

rode into the town on this horse; and often his neighbors borrowed it of

him, and rendered the old couple some service in return for the loan of

it. But they thought it would be best if they sold the horse, or

exchanged it for something that might be more useful to them. But what

might this SOMETHING be?

"You'll know that best, old man," said the wife. "It is fair day to-day,

so ride into town, and get rid of the horse for money, or make a good

exchange; whichever you do will be right to me. Ride off to the fair."

And she fastened his neckerchief for him, for she could do that better

than he could; and she tied it in a double bow, for she could do that

very prettily. Then she brushed his hat round and round with the palm of

her hand, and gave him a kiss. So he rode away upon the horse that was

to be sold or to be bartered for something else. Yes, the old man knew

what he was about.

The sun shone hotly down, and not a cloud was to be seen in the sky. The

road was very dusty, for many people, who were all bound for the fair,

were driving, or riding, or walking upon it. There was no shelter

anywhere from the sunbeams.

Among the rest, a man was trudging along, driving a cow to the fair. The

cow was as beautiful a creature as any cow can be.

"She gives good milk, I'm sure," said the peasant. "That would be a very

good exchange--the cow for the horse."

"Hallo, you there with the cow!" he said; "I tell you what--I fancy a

horse costs more than a cow, but I don't care for that; a cow would be

more useful to me. If you like, we'll exchange."

"To be sure I will," returned the man; and they exchanged accordingly.

So that was settled, and the peasant might have turned back, for he had

done the business he came to do; but as he had once made up his mind to

go to the fair, he determined to proceed, merely to have a look at it;

and so he went on to the town with his cow.

Leading the animal, he strode sturdily on; and after a short time he

overtook a man who was driving a sheep. It was a good fat sheep, with a

fine fleece on its back.

"I should like to have that fellow," said our peasant to himself. "He

would find plenty of grass by our palings, and in the winter we could

keep him in the room with us. Perhaps it would be more practical to have

a sheep instead of a cow. Shall we exchange?"

The man with the sheep was quite ready, and the bargain was struck. So

our peasant went on in the highroad with his sheep.

Soon he overtook another man, who came into the road from a field,

carrying a great goose under his arm.

"That's a heavy thing you have there. It has plenty of feathers and

plenty of fat, and would look well tied to a string, and paddling in the

water at our place. That would be something for my old woman; she could

make much profit out of it. How often she has said, 'If we only had a

goose!' Now, perhaps, she can have one. Shall we exchange? I'll give you

my sheep for your goose, and thank you into the bargain."

The other man had not the least objection; and accordingly they

exchanged, and our peasant became the owner of the goose.

By this time he was very near the town. The crowd on the highroad became

greater and greater; there was quite a crush of men and cattle. They

walked in the road, and close by the paling; and at the barrier they

even walked into the tollman's potato field, where his own fowl was

strutting about with a string to its legs, lest it should take fright at

the crowd, and stray away, and so be lost. This fowl had short tail

feathers, and winked with both its eyes, and looked very cunning.

"Cluck! cluck!" said the fowl. What it thought when it said this I

cannot tell you; but as soon as our good man saw it, he thought, "That's

the finest fowl I've ever seen in my life! Why, it's finer than our

parson's brood hen. On my word, I should like to have that fowl. A fowl

can always find a grain or two, and can almost keep itself. I think it

would be a good exchange if I could get that in exchange for my goose.

Shall we exchange?" he asked the toll taker.

"Exchange!" repeated the man; "well, that would not be a bad thing."

And so they exchanged; the toll taker at the barrier kept the goose, and

the peasant carried away the fowl.

Now, he had done a good deal of business on his way to the fair, and he

was hot and tired. He wanted something to eat and to drink; and soon he

was in front of the inn. He was just about to step in, when the hostler

came out; so they met at the door. The hostler was carrying a sack.

"What have you in that sack?" asked the peasant.

"Rotten apples," answered the hostler; "a whole sackful of them--enough

to feed the pigs with."

"Why, that's terrible waste! I should like to take them to my old woman

at home. Last year the old tree by the turf-hole only bore a single

apple, and we kept it in the cupboard till it was quite rotten and

spoiled, 'It was always property,' my old woman said; but here she could

see a quantity of property--a whole sackful. Yes, I shall be glad to

show them to her."

"What will you give me for the sackful?" asked the hostler.

"What will I give? I will give my fowl in exchange."

And he gave the fowl accordingly, and received the apples, which he

carried into the guest room. He leaned the sack carefully by the stove,

and then went to the table. But the stove was hot; he had not thought of

that. Many guests were present--horse dealers, ox-herds, and two

Englishmen--and the two Englishmen were so rich that their pockets

bulged out with gold coins, and almost burst; and they could wager, too,

as you shall hear.

Hiss-s-s! hiss-s-s! What was that by the stove? The apples were

beginning to roast.

"What is that?"

"Why, do you know---" said our peasant.

And he told the whole story of the horse that he had exchanged for a

cow, and all the rest of it down to the apples.

"Well, your old woman will give it you well when you get home," said one

of the Englishmen. "There will be a disturbance."

"What?--give me what?" said the peasant.

"She will kiss me, and say, 'What the old man does is always right.'"

"Shall we wager?" said the Englishman. "We'll wager coined gold by the

ton--a hundred pounds to the hundredweight!"

"A bushel will be enough," replied the peasant. "I can only set the

bushel of apples against it; and I'll throw myself and my old woman into

the bargain--and I fancy that's piling up the measure."

"Done--taken!"

And the bet was made. The host's carriage came up, and the Englishmen

got in, and the peasant got in; away they went, and soon they stopped

before the peasant's hut.

"Good evening, old woman."

"Good evening, old man."

"I've made exchange."

"Yes, you understand what you're about," said the woman.

And she embraced him, and paid no attention to the stranger guests, nor

did she notice the sack.

"I got a cow in exchange for the horse," said he.

"Heaven be thanked!" said she. "What glorious milk we shall now have,

and butter and cheese upon the table! That was a most capital exchange!"

"Yes, but I exchanged the cow for a sheep."

"Ah, that's better still!" cried the wife. "You always think of

everything; we have just pasture enough for a sheep. Ewe's milk and

cheese, and woolen jackets and stockings! The cow cannot give those, and

her hairs will only come off. How you think of everything!"

"But I changed away the sheep for a goose."

"Then this year we shall have really roast goose to eat, my dear old

man. You are always thinking of something to give me pleasure. How

charming that is! We can let the goose walk about with a string to her

leg, and she'll grow fatter still before we roast her."

"But I gave away the goose for a fowl," said the man.

[Illustration: "MY DEAR GOOD HUSBAND!"]

"A fowl? That WAS a good exchange!" replied the woman. "The fowl will

lay eggs and hatch them, and we shall soon have chickens; we shall have

a whole poultry yard! Oh, that's just what I was wishing for."

"Yes, but I exchanged the fowl for a sack of shriveled apples."

"What!--I must positively kiss you for that," exclaimed the wife, "My

dear, good husband! Now I'll tell you something. Do you know, you had

hardly left me this morning, before I began thinking how I could give

you something very nice this evening. I thought it should be pancakes

with savory herbs. I had eggs, and bacon too; but I wanted herbs. So I

went over to the schoolmaster's--they have herbs there, I know--but the

schoolmistress is a mean woman, though she looks so sweet. I begged her

to lend me a handful of herbs, 'Lend!' she answered me; 'nothing at all

grows in our garden, not even a shriveled apple. I could not even lend

you a shriveled apple, my dear woman.' But now _I_ can lend HER twenty,

or a whole sackful. That I'm very glad of; that makes me laugh!" And

with that she gave him a sounding kiss.

"I like that!" exclaimed both the Englishmen together. "Always going

downhill, and always merry; that's worth the money."

So they paid a hundredweight of gold to the peasant, who was not

scolded, but kissed.

Yes, it always pays, when the wife sees and always asserts that her

husband knows best, and that whatever he does is right.

You see, that is my story. I heard it when I was a child; and now you

have heard it too, and know that "What the old man does is always

right."

THE FAIRIES OF THE CALDON-LOW

By Mary Howitt

"And where have you been, my Mary,

And where have you been from me?"

"I've been to the top of the Caldon-Low,

The midsummer night to see!"

"And what did you see, my Mary,

All up on the Caldon-Low?"

"I saw the blithe sunshine come down,

And I saw the merry winds blow."

"And what did you hear, my Mary,

All up on the Caldon-Hill?"

"I heard the drops of water made,

And I heard the corn-ears fill."

"Oh, tell me all, my Mary--

All, all that ever you know;

For you must have seen the fairies

Last night on the Caldon-Low."

"Then take me on your knee, mother,

And listen, mother of mine:

A hundred fairies danced last night,

And the harpers they were nine;

"And merry was the glee of the harp-strings,

And their dancing feet so small;

But, oh! the sound of their talking

Was merrier far than all!"

[Illustration]

"And what were the words, my Mary,

That you did hear them say?"

"I'll tell you all, my mother,

But let me have my way.

"And some they played with the water,

And rolled it down the hill;

'And this,' they said, 'shall speedily turn

The poor old miller's mill;

"'For there has been no water

Ever since the first of May;

And a busy man shall the miller be

By the dawning of the day!

"'Oh, the miller, how he will laugh,

When he sees the milldam rise!

The jolly old miller, how he will laugh,

Till the tears fill both his eyes!'

"'And some they seized the little winds,

That sounded over the hill,

And each put a horn into his mouth,

And blew so sharp and shrill!

[Illustration]

"'And there,' said they, 'the merry winds go

Away from every horn;

And those shall clear the mildew dank

From the blind old widow's corn:

"'Oh, the poor blind widow--

Though she has been blind so long,

She'll be merry enough when the mildew's gone,

And the corn stands stiff and strong!'

"And some they brought the brown linseed,

And flung it down from the Low;

'And this,' said they, 'by the sunrise,

In the weaver's croft shall grow!

"'Oh, the poor lame weaver!

How will he laugh outright

When he sees his dwindling flax field

All full of flowers by night!'

"And then up spoke a brownie,

With a long beard on his chin;

'I have spun up all the tow,' said he,

'And I want some more to spin.

"'I've spun a piece of hempen cloth,

And I want to spin another--

A little sheet for Mary's bed

And an apron for her mother!'

"And with that I could not help but laugh,

And I laughed out loud and free;

And then on the top of the Caldon-Low

There was no one left but me.

"And all on the top of the Caldon-Low

The mists were cold and gray,

And nothing I saw but the mossy stones

That round about me lay.

"But as I came down from the hilltop,

I heard, afar below,

How busy the jolly miller was,

And how merry the wheel did go.

"And I peeped into the widow's field,

And, sure enough, was seen

The yellow ears of the mildewed corn

All standing stiff and green!

"And down by the weaver's croft I stole,

To see if the flax were high;

But I saw the weaver at his gate

With the good news in his eye!

"Now, this is all that I heard, mother,

And all that I did see;

So, prithee, make my bed, mother,

For I'm tired as I can be!"

WHO STOLE THE BIRD'S NEST?

By L. Maria Child

"To-whit! to-whit! to-whee!

Will you listen to me?

Who stole four eggs I laid,

And the nice nest I made?"

"Not I," said the cow; "Moo-oo!

Such a thing I'd never do.

I gave you a wisp of hay,

But didn't take your nest away.

Not I," said the cow; "Moo-oo!

Such a thing I'd never do."

"To-whit! to-whit! to-whee!

Will you listen to me?

Who stole four eggs I laid,

And the nice nest I made?"

"Bob-o'-link! Bob-o'-link!

Now, what do you think?

Who stole a nest away

From the plum tree, to-day?"

"Not I," said the dog; "Bow-wow!

I wouldn't be so mean, anyhow!

I gave hairs the nest to make,

But the nest I did not take.

Not I," said the dog; "Bow-wow!

I'm not so mean, anyhow."

[Illustration]

"To-whit I to-whit! to-whee!

Will you listen to me?

Who stole four eggs I laid,

And the nice nest I made?"

"Bob-o'-link! Bob-o'-link!

Now what do you think?

Who stole a nest away

From the plum tree, to-day?"

"Coo-coo! Coo-coo! Coo-coo!

Let me speak a word, too!

Who stole that pretty nest

From little yellow-breast?"

"Not I," said the sheep; "Oh, no!

I wouldn't treat a poor bird so.

I gave wool the nest to line,

But the nest was none of mine.

Baa! Baa!" said the sheep; "Oh, no.

I wouldn't treat a poor bird so."

"To-whit! to-whit! to-whee!

Will you listen to me?

Who stole four eggs I laid,

And the nice nest I made?"

[Illustration]

"Bob-o'-link! Bob-o'-link!

Now, what do you think?

Who stole a nest away

From the plum tree, to-day?"

"Coo-coo! Coo-coo! Coo-coo!

Let me speak a word, too!

Who stole that pretty nest

From little yellow-breast?"

"Caw! Caw!" cried the crow;

"I should like to know

What thief took away

A bird's nest to-day?"

"Cluck! Cluck!" said the hen,

"Don't ask me again.

Why, I haven't a chick

Would do such a trick.

We all gave her a feather,

And she wove them together.

I'd scorn to intrude

On her and her brood.

Cluck! Cluck!" said the hen,

"Don't ask me again."

"Chirr-a-whirr! Chirr-a-whirr!

All the birds make a stir!

Let us find out his name,

And all cry, 'For shame!'"

"I would not rob a bird,"

Said little Mary Green;

"I think I never heard

Of anything so mean."

"It is very cruel, too,"

Said little Alice Neal;

"I wonder if he knew

How sad the bird would feel?"

A little boy hung down his head,

And went and hid behind the bed;

For HE stole that pretty nest

From poor little yellow-breast;

And he felt so full of shame,

He didn't like to tell his name.

In this little dialogue, what part do the birds take? What part do the

animals take?

THE FIRST SNOWFALL

By James Russell Lovell

The snow had begun in the gloaming,

And busily all the night

Had been heaping field and highway

With a silence deep and white.

Every pine and fir and hemlock

Wore ermine too dear for an earl,

And the poorest twig on the elm tree

Was ridged inch deep with pearl.

From sheds new-roofed with Carrara

Came Chanticleer's muffled crow,

The stiff rails were softened to swan's-down,

And still fluttered down the snow.

I stood and watched by the window

The noiseless work of the sky,

And the sudden flurries of snowbirds,

Like brown leaves whirling by.

I thought of a mound in sweet Auburn

Where a little headstone stood;

How the flakes were folding it gently,

As did robins the babes in the wood.

Up spoke our own little Mabel,

Saying, "Father, who makes it snow?"

And I told of the good All-father

Who cares for us here below.

[Illustration]

Again I looked at the snowfall,

And thought of the leaden sky

That arched o'er our first great sorrow,

When that mound was heaped so high.

I remembered the gradual patience

That fell from that cloud like snow,

Flake by flake, healing and hiding

The scar of our deep-plunged woe.

And again to the child I whispered,

"The snow that husheth all,

Darling, the merciful Father

Alone can make it fall!"

Then, with eyes that saw not, I kissed her;

And she, kissing back, could not know

That MY kiss was given to her sister,

Folded close under deepening snow.

[Footnote: Lowell refers here to a daughter, Blanche, who died shortly

before the birth of his daughter Rosa.]

THE KING OF THE GOLDEN RIVER

By John Ruskin

I

In a secluded and mountainous part of Styria there was, in old time, a

valley of the most surprising and luxuriant fertility. It was surrounded

on all sides by steep and rocky mountains, rising into peaks, which were

always covered with snow, and from which a number of torrents descended

in constant cataracts. One of these fell westward, over the face of a

crag so high that, when the sun had set to everything else, and all

below was darkness, his beams still shone full upon this waterfall, so

that it looked like a shower of gold. It was therefore called by the

people of the neighborhood the Golden River. It was strange that none of

these streams fell into the valley itself. They all descended on the

other side of the mountains, and wound away through broad plains and by

populous cities. But the clouds were drawn so constantly to the snowy

hills, and rested so softly in the circular hollow, that, in time of

drought and heat, when all the country round was burned up, there was

still rain in the little valley; and its crops were so heavy, and its

hay so high, and its apples so red, and its grapes so blue, and its wine

so rich, and its honey so sweet, that it was a marvel to every one who

beheld it, and was commonly called the Treasure Valley.

The whole of this little valley belonged to three brothers, called

Schwartz, Hans, and Gluck. Schwartz and Hans, the two elder brothers,

were very ugly men, with overhanging eyebrows and small, dull eyes,

which were always half shut, so that you couldn't see into them, and

always fancied they saw very far into you. They lived by farming the

Treasure Valley, and very good farmers they were. They killed everything

that did not pay for its eating. They shot the blackbirds, because they

pecked the fruit; and killed the hedgehogs, lest they should suck the

cows; they poisoned the crickets for eating the crumbs in the kitchen;

and smothered the cicadas, which used to sing all summer in the lime

trees. They worked their servants without any wages, till they would not

work any more, and then quarrelled with them, and turned them out of

doors without paying them. It would have been very odd if, with such a

farm, and such a system of farming, they hadn't got very rich; and very

rich they did get. They generally contrived to keep their corn by them

till it was very dear, and then sell it for twice its value; they had

heaps of gold lying about on their floors, yet it was never known that

they had given so much as a penny or a crust in charity; they never went

to mass; grumbled perpetually at paying tithes; and were, in a word, of

so cruel and grinding a temper, as to receive from all those with whom

they had any dealings, the nickname of the "Black Brothers."

The youngest brother, Gluck, was as completely opposed, in both

appearance and character, to his seniors as could possibly be imagined

or desired. He was not above twelve years old, fair, blue-eyed. and kind

in temper to every living thing. He did not, of course, agree

particularly well with his brothers, or, rather, they did not agree with

him. He was usually appointed to the honorable office of turnspit, when

there was anything to roast, which was not often; for, to do the

brothers justice, they were hardly less sparing upon themselves than

upon other people. At other times he used to clean the shoes, the

floors, and sometimes the plates, occasionally getting what was left on

them, by way of encouragement, and a wholesome quantity of dry blows, by

way of education.

Things went on in this manner for a long time. At last came a very wet

summer, and everything went wrong in the country round. The hay had

hardly been got in, when the haystacks were floated bodily down to the

sea by an inundation; the vines were cut to pieces with the hail; the

corn was all killed by a black blight; only in the Treasure Valley, as

usual, all was safe. As it had rain when there was rain nowhere else, so

it had sun when there was sun nowhere else. Everybody came to buy corn

at the farm, and went away pouring maledictions on the Black Brothers.

They asked what they liked, and got it, except from the poor people, who

could only beg, and several of whom were starved at their very door,

without the slightest regard or notice.

It was drawing toward winter, and very cold weather, when one day the

two elder brothers had gone out, with their usual warning to little

Gluck, who was left to mind the roast, that he was to let nobody in, and

give nothing out. Gluck sat down quite close to the fire, for it was

raining very hard, and the kitchen walls were by no means dry or

comfortable looking. He turned and turned, and the roast got nice and

brown. "What a pity," thought Gluck, "my brothers never ask anybody to

dinner. I'm sure, when they've got such a nice piece of mutton as this,

and nobody else has got so much as a piece of dry bread, it would do

their hearts good to have somebody to eat it with them."

Just as he spoke, there came a double knock at the house door, yet heavy

and dull, as though the knocker had been tied up--more like a puff than

a knock.

"It must be the wind," said Gluck; "nobody else would venture to knock

double knocks at our door."

No; it wasn't the wind; there it came again very hard, and, what was

particularly astounding, the knocker seemed to be in a hurry, and not to

be in the least afraid of the consequences. Gluck went to the window,

opened it, and put his head out to see who it was.

It was the most extraordinary-looking little gentleman he had ever seen

in his life. He had a very large nose, slightly brass-colored; his

cheeks were very round and very red, and might have warranted a

supposition that he had been blowing a refractory fire for the last

eight-and-forty hours; his eyes twinkled merrily through long silky

eyelashes, his mustaches curled twice round like a corkscrew on each

side of his mouth, and his hair, of a curious mixed pepper-and-salt

color, descended far over his shoulders. He was about four feet six in

height, and wore a conical-pointed cap of nearly the same altitude,

decorated with a black feather some three feet long. His doublet was

prolonged behind into something resembling a violent exaggeration of

what is now termed a "swallow-tail," but was much obscured by the

swelling folds of an enormous black, glossy-looking cloak, which must

have been very much too long in calm weather, as the wind, whistling

round the old house, carried it clear out from the wearer's shoulders to

about four times his own length.

[Illustration: "HELLO, I'M WET, LET ME IN"]

Gluck was so perfectly paralyzed by the singular appearance of his

visitor that he remained fixed without uttering a word, until the old

gentleman, having performed another and a more energetic concerto on the

knocker, turned round to look after his fly-away cloak. In so doing he

caught sight of Gluck's little yellow head jammed in the window, with

his mouth and eyes very wide open indeed.

"Hello!" said the little gentleman, "that's not the way to answer the

door; I'm wet, let me in."

To do the little gentleman justice, he was wet. His feather hung down

between his legs like a beaten puppy's tail, dripping like an umbrella;

and from the ends of his mustaches the water was running into his waist

coat pockets, and out again like a mill-stream.

"I beg pardon, sir," said Gluck; "I'm very sorry, but I really can't."

"Can't what?" said the old gentleman,

"I can't let you in, sir--I can't indeed; my brothers would beat me to

death, sir, if I thought of such a thing. What do you want, sir?"

"Want?" said the old gentleman petulantly; "I want fire and shelter; and

there's your great fire there blazing, crackling, and dancing on the

walls, with nobody to feel it. Let me in, I say; I only want to warm

myself."

Gluck had had his head, by this time, so long out of the window that he

began to feel it was really unpleasantly cold, and when he turned, and

saw the beautiful fire rustling and roaring, and throwing long bright

tongues up the chimney, as if it were licking its chops at the savory

smell of the leg of mutton, his heart melted within him that it should

be burning away for nothing. "He does look very wet," said little Gluck;

"I'll just let him in for a quarter of an hour." Round he went to the

door, and opened it; and as the little gentleman walked in, through the

house came a gust of wind that made the old chimneys totter.

"That's a good boy," said the little gentleman. "Never mind your

brothers. I'll talk to them."

"Pray, sir, don't do any such thing," said Gluck. "I can't let you stay

till they come; they'd be the death of me!"

"Dear me," said the old gentleman, "I'm very sorry to hear that. How

long may I stay?"

"Only till the mutton's done, sir," replied Gluck, "and it's very

brown."

Then the old gentleman walked into the kitchen, and sat himself down on

the hob, with the top of his cap accommodated up the chimney, for it was

a great deal too high for the roof.

"You'll soon dry there, sir," said Gluck, and sat down again to turn the

mutton. But the old gentleman did NOT dry there, but went on drip, drip,

dripping among the cinders, and the fire fizzed and sputtered, and began

to look very black and uncomfortable; never was such a cloak; every fold

in it ran like a gutter.

"I beg pardon, sir," said Gluck at length, after watching the water

spreading in long quicksilver-like streams over the floor for a quarter

of an hour; "mayn't I take your cloak?"

"No, thank you," said the old gentleman.

"Your cap, sir?"

"I'm all right, thank you," said the old gentleman, rather gruffly.

"But--sir--I'm very sorry," said Gluck hesitatingly; "but--really, sir--

you're putting the fire out."

"It'll take longer to do the mutton then," replied his visitor, dryly.

Gluck was very much puzzled by the behavior of his guest; it was such a

strange mixture of coolness and humility. He turned away at the string

meditatively for another five minutes.

"That mutton looks very nice," said the old gentleman, at length. "Can't

you give me a little bit?"

"Impossible, sir," said Gluck.

"I'm very hungry," continued the old gentleman; "I've had nothing to eat

yesterday, nor to-day. They surely couldn't miss a bit from the

knuckle!"

He spoke in so very melancholy a tone that it quite melted Gluck's

heart. "They promised me one slice to-day, sir," said he; "I can give

you that, but not a bit more."

"That's a good boy," said the old gentleman again.

Then Gluck warmed a plate and sharpened a knife. "I don't care if I do

get beaten for it," thought he. Just as he had cut a large slice out of

the mutton, there came a tremendous rap at the door. The old gentleman

jumped off the hob, as if it had suddenly become inconveniently warm.

Gluck fitted the slice into the mutton again, with desperate efforts at

exactitude, and ran to open the door.

"What did you keep us waiting in the rain for?" said Schwartz, as he

walked in, throwing his umbrella in Gluck's face.

"Ay! what for, indeed, you little vagabond?" said Hans, administering an

educational box on the ear, as he followed his brother into the kitchen.

"Bless my soul!" said Schwartz, when he opened the door.

"Amen," said the little gentleman, who had taken his cap off, and was

standing in the middle of the kitchen, bowing with the utmost possible

velocity.

"Who's that?" said Schwartz, catching up a rolling-pin, and turning to

Gluck with a fierce frown.

"I don't know, indeed, brother," said Gluck, in great terror.

"How did he get in?" roared Schwartz.

"My dear brother," said Gluck deprecatingly, "he was so very wet!"

The rolling-pin was descending on Gluck's head; but, at the instant, the

old gentleman interposed his conical cap, on which it crashed with a

shock that shook the water out of it all over the room. What was very

odd, the rolling-pin no sooner touched the cap, than it flew out of

Schwartz's hand, spinning like a straw in a high wind, and fell into the

corner at the further end of the room.

"Who are you, sir?" demanded Schwartz, turning upon him.

"What's your business?" snarled Hans.

"I'm a poor old man, sir," the little gentleman began very modestly,

"and I saw your fire through the window, and begged shelter for a

quarter of an hour."

"Have the goodness to walk out again, then," said Schwartz. "We've quite

water enough in our kitchen, without making it a drying-house."

"It's a cold day to turn an old man out in, sir; look at my gray hairs."

They hung down to his shoulders, as I told you before.

"Ay!" said Hans, "there are enough of them to keep you warm. Walk!"

"I'm very, very hungry, sir; couldn't you spare me a bit of bread before

I go?"

"Bread, indeed!" said Schwartz; "do you suppose we've nothing to do with

our bread but to give it to such red-nosed fellows as you?"

"Why don't you sell your feather?" said Hans, sneeringly. "Out with

you."

"A little bit," said the old gentleman.

"Be off!" said Schwartz.

"Pray, gentlemen."

"Off, and be hanged!" cried Hans, seizing him by the collar. But he had

no sooner touched the old gentleman's collar, than away he went after

the rolling-pin, spinning round and round, till he fell into the corner

on the top of it. Then Schwartz was very angry, and ran at the old

gentleman to turn him out; but he also had hardly touched him, when away

he went after Hans and the rolling-pin, and hit his head against the

wall as he tumbled into the corner. And so there they lay, all three.

Then the old gentleman spun himself round with velocity in the opposite

direction; continued to spin until his long cloak was all wound neatly

about him; clapped his cap on his head, very much on one side (for it

could not stand upright without going through the ceiling), gave an

additional twist to his corkscrew mustaches, and replied with perfect

coolness: "Gentlemen, I wish you a very good morning. At twelve o'clock

to-night I'll call again; after such a refusal of hospitality as I have

just experienced, you will not be surprised if that visit is the last I

ever pay you."

"If I ever catch you here again," muttered Schwartz, coming, half

frightened, out of the corner--but before he could finish his sentence,

the old gentleman had shut the house door behind him with a great bang;

and past the window, at the same instant, drove a wreath of ragged

cloud, that whirled and rolled away down the valley in all manner of

shapes; turning over and over in the air: and melting away at last in a

gush of rain.

"A very pretty business, indeed, Mr. Gluck!" said Schwartz. "Dish the

mutton, sir. If ever I catch you at such a trick again--Bless me, why

the mutton's been cut!"

"You promised me one slice, brother, you know," said Gluck.

"Oh! and you were cutting it hot, I suppose, and going to catch all the

gravy. It'll be long before I promise you such a thing again. Leave the

room, sir; and have the kindness to wait in the coal-cellar till I call

you."

Gluck left the room melancholy enough. The brothers ate as much mutton

as they could, locked the rest in the cupboard, and proceeded to get

very drunk after dinner.

Such a night as it was! Howling wind and rushing rain without

intermission. The brothers had just sense enough left to put up all the

shutters, and double bar the door, before they went to bed. They usually

slept in the same room. As the clock struck twelve, they were both

awakened by a tremendous crash. Their door burst open with a violence

that shook the house from top to bottom.

"What's that?" cried Schwartz, starting up in his bed.

"Only I," said the little gentleman.

The two brothers sat up on their bolster, and stared into the darkness.

The room was full of water, and by a misty moonbeam, which found its way

through a hole in the shutter, they could see, in the midst of it, an

enormous foam globe, spinning round, and bobbing up and down like a

cork, on which, as on a most luxurious cushion, reclined the little old

gentleman, cap and all.

There was plenty of room for it now, for the roof was off.

"Sorry to incommode you," said their visitor ironically. "I'm afraid

your beds are dampish; perhaps you had better go to your brother's room;

I've left the ceiling on there."

They required no second admonition, but rushed into Gluck's room, wet

through, and in an agony of terror.

"You'll find my card on the kitchen table," the old gentleman called

after them. "Remember, the LAST visit."

"Pray Heaven it may be!" said Schwartz, shuddering. And the foam globe

disappeared.

Dawn came at last, and the two brothers looked out of Gluck's little

window in the morning. The Treasure Valley was one mass of ruin and

desolation. The inundation had swept away trees, crops, and cattle, and

left, in their stead, a waste of red sand and gray mud.

[Illustration with caption: "SORRY TO INCOMMODE YOU"]

The two brothers crept, shivering and horror-struck, into the kitchen.

The water had gutted the whole first floor: corn, money, almost every

movable thing had been swept away, and there was left only a small white

card on the kitchen table.

On it, in large, breezy, long-legged letters, were engraved the words:

Southwest Wind, Esquire.