_Julia Burket_
Snyge, the woodsman, walked briskly through the gates of the park which
surrounded the royal palace. On his arm hung a small basket covered
with a white cloth. In the basket were some cranberry tarts which
his wife was sending to her aunt, an old woman who stirred the royal
soup-kettle.
As Snyge walked along the winding road the sun shone and sparkled
brightly on the snow; and the roofs of the palace, which glistened
through the tree-tops, did not seem nearly so awe-inspiring as they did
on other days. On approaching the rear of the palace he heard a great
deal of loud hammering, which sounded odd on the quiet of the winter
afternoon. He hastened his steps and opened the door of the kitchen.
Along one side of the brick-floored room there stretched a long wooden
table. Before the table was a settle, and on this were seated a
scullery-maid, two butlers, four maids, and three small footmen; all
dressed in the olive livery of the king’s household and all busily
cracking nuts.
They made such a racket and commotion that Snyge was obliged to walk
the entire length of the room before he could attract the attention of
Mother Jorgan, who was stirring away at the soup with her back to the
door.
“What is the meaning of all this noise?” he shouted in the old woman’s
ear.
At the unexpected sound of his voice she gave a start, and would have
dropped the pot-stick if a little boy, who was seated on a high stool
behind the kettle, had not caught it.
After Mother Jorgan had recovered from her surprise she told the
woodsman that they were cracking nuts for the Christmas feast. They
should all have been done the day before, but the scullery-maid had
forgotten and the baker was now mixing up the fruit-cake; so they had
been forced to set every one to work who was not already busy, in order
that the nuts should be ready in time.
While Mother Jorgan was muttering away in her shrill, cackling voice,
Snyge had been staring ahead of him at the small boy on the stool.
There was really no reason why any one should look at poor little
Bebelle. He was by far the ugliest and most insignificant-looking
person in the room. Hunched up on his stool in the dark shadows behind
the kettle, he looked more like some odious goblin than a little boy.
His thick black hair made a fitting frame for his pinched face. His
nose was long and crooked; his eyes were very large and very black; and
his pathetic little mouth, although tender and childish, made his face
seem all the homelier by contrast. In his hand he held a stick upon
which, with infinite labor, he was carving something.
However, Snyge, who said little, but saw a great deal, when Mother
Jorgan had finished, pointed his finger at him and said, “Who is that?”
“I am Bebelle,” said the child in a thin, but rather sweet, voice.
“And what is that you have there in your hand?”
“That,” said the old woman, “is the scepter he is making for the king’s
Christmas present.” And turning her back to the kettle, she looked
significantly at Snyge and tapped her forehead. “Tell Snyge about your
present, Bebelle, and perhaps he will give you a better stick of wood.”
But the child held the stick close and answered fearfully: “Oh, no,
thank you, Mother Jorgan! No, thank you! this will do very well for
what I want. But I will tell the man what I know of it.”
At these words one of the small footmen, who had stopped swinging his
hammer for a moment in order to eat a walnut, nudged his neighbor, and
they both picked up their bowls of nuts and squatted down on the floor
in front of the kettle. And the maid who dusted the royal throne, and
was just then going through the kitchen, saw the pages and joined the
little group.
“We will now have some fun,” one of them whispered to her.
Bebelle, who was unaware of his audience on the other side of the
kettle, turning towards Snyge, began his tale.
“You see,” he said, “although I am lame and stupid and of no use to any
one, the good king allows me to stay here in his kitchen. I sit here
all day behind the kettle; and when Mother Jorgan has something else
she must do, she allows me to stir the soup. Each day I have a crust
of bread and bowl of froth from the top of the soup, and at night the
baker allows me to lie behind the great oven. You see, I should be
happy, for I have done nothing to deserve this easy lot. But sometimes
I am very discontented. I was feeling that way one evening, and, as I
was alone in the kitchen, I climbed up there on the table to look out
of the casement. It was a lovely night, with all the stars shining, and
as I stood there thinking how ashamed I should be to be unhappy when so
much splendor was about me, I saw before me a beautiful hand reaching
up on the other side of the sill. It clasped a stick of wood and a
piece of paper. The hand laid them on the window-ledge, and I heard a
voice like music say, “These are for you, Bebelle.’”
Here there was a great nudging and giggling on the part of his unseen
audience, and the little maid called out, “Where is the paper now?”
Bebelle leaned far out over the kettle, and, seeing the maid’s duster
on the floor, turned again to Snyge and said: “They often come to hear
me tell about it. The paper blew into the fire,” he explained, and
went on: “I was very much frightened and wanted to climb down from the
window and leave them there, but at last I found courage to look at the
paper. On it were these words: _Justice, Mercy, Verity, Lowliness,
Devotion, Patience, Courage, and, above all, Love_. I stood there a
long time, and at last I thought how fine it would be to make a new
scepter for a Christmas present to the king, and to carve these words
upon it. They are pretty words and have a pleasant sound. I have never
heard the wonderful voice again, but I feel that this is what it would
have me do.”
“Now tell about how the words come,” demanded one of the footmen.
But Bebelle would only say, “I am at the end of ‘_Patience_’ now, and,
if you do not mind, I will start to carve again. You see, there is very
little time left until Christmas.”
As Bebelle concluded, his small audience broke up. The maid returned
to her dusting, the footmen took their bowls and hammers back to the
table, and Mother Jorgan, giving the pot-stick to little Bebelle, went
to the door with Snyge.
With the return of the footmen, the noise was even more deafening than
before. The fruit-cake was all mixed but the nuts, and the baker stood
over the small regiment of workers, every now and then rapping up some
lagging one with a cuff on the ears. Mother Jorgan was obliged fairly
to shriek the rest of the conversation; or rather her part of it, for
Snyge said very little.
“Yes, it is true. Bebelle has been carving at the old stick for weeks.
He is very happy. But he is a stupid dolt. The king does not even know
that he lives here in the kitchen. If he did, it would all be at an
end with little Bebelle.”
“And about the hand?” asked the woodsman.
“That? Oh, well, I don’t know. No one here believes it. But I couldn’t
say. It may be. But I know this much: I have seen the words come. When
he was at ‘_Mercy_,’ a few weeks ago, one of the huntsmen brought him a
little half-dead squirrel for his supper. But the foolish child warmed
it and set it free. When he went back to his carving, ‘Mercy’ was there
on the stick. That has been the way with them all. I know, for I have
seen it with my sharp old eyes.”
Snyge gave her the basket and went out into the dusk. He had stayed
long past his time.
In a little while the noise in the kitchen ceased. The nuts were all
finished and put in the waiting cake, and the room was quiet but for
the crackling of the fire and the chatter of the servants.
“‘_Patience_’ is very hard,” said little Bebelle to Mother Jorgan. “I
get along very well for a while, but just as I have almost finished,
the letters seem to fly back again. It is very funny.
“Listen, Mother Jorgan! Some one is coming. It is Shreve of the
Fields.” His face was lit up until it seemed almost pretty, and his
hands trembled at his carving.
In a moment there was a low, mysterious bird-note. Some one drew back
the bolts, and youth incarnate stood framed in the dark oaken doorway.
Shreve of the Fields swayed there, his slim, vibrant figure outlined
against the sparkling snow without. Pushed back from his thick dark
curls he wore a bag-like cap of brilliant red. Over the shoulder of his
tattered jacket was flung a brown sack, and in his hands he held a torn
net. The lovely poise of his proud young head, the startling beauty of
his face, the wonder of his gay, mysterious eyes, were all so intense
that one looked again and again, awed, troubled, stupefied, unable to
understand such glorious beauty. It was like some vague lovely dream
that one had been forced by the very intensity of its sweetness to cast
from his thoughts, now recurring to the mind. Even the servants felt
it, and they looked again and again at the not unfamiliar sight of
the radiant youth. And Shreve, unable, as always, to understand this
blind desire to pierce the mystery of his beauty, crossed the room with
swift, free steps and approached Bebelle.
“I have brought you this net to mend,” he said, and his voice was low
and wonderfully sweet. “I use it to catch the poor starving hares; and
then I feed them. I will wait if you are not too long.”
“Oh, I’ll do it gladly,” responded the child; “and I’ll try to hasten
as much as I can.”
He put the unfinished scepter in his threadbare little blouse, and bent
carefully over the net.
It had now grown dark, and one of the pages went about the room with
a taper lighting the candles in the greater pewter sticks. One by
one the butlers and footmen came in to eat their evening meal before
they should serve the royal dinner. All was light, and laughter and
good-natured raillery in the kitchen.
Shreve walked restlessly up and down the long room. Each time he passed
the oven he would snatch a loaf and put it in his sack. “For my birds,”
he would say with his dazzling smile to the baker. Each time he neared
the soup-kettle he stopped and watched little Bebelle’s swift-moving
fingers. Without looking up, the child would answer his unspoken
question, “In a little while, Shreve, I shall have finished it.”
As the graceful, glowing figure moved about the room all the youths
stared at him and the maidens glanced more shyly from under their long
lashes. But Shreve’s thoughts were on the world outside and the mending
of the net. However, when they spoke to him, he always answered sweetly
in his lovely, winning voice.
“How are your friends, O Shreve?” said Mother Jorgan.
“They are well. Only it is cold in the mountains, and the beasts
freeze; and the woods and fields are bare, so my birds want food. But
wait, old woman; some day I shall know all of nature’s secrets, and
then winter cannot harm my people.”
The servants now came up to the kettle to get their bowls of soup, and
Shreve of the Fields stood in the corner and watched them silently.
At last Bebelle crept down from his stool, and slowly moved toward
Shreve.
“Here is your net, Shreve,” he said.
The beautiful youth took the net and held it before him. He tugged at
it, but the mended threads held as firmly as the others.
“This is nicely done, Bebelle. When I come at Christmas I will bring
you some fairy moss. How is your scepter?” he asked a little shyly.
“Oh, it is almost finished. I am on ‘_Patience_’ now.”
Bebelle pulled the stick from his blouse, and as Shreve of the Fields
bent over it, he saw that “_Patience_” was finished.
* * * * *
It was the eve of Christmas, and all the great castle was in a merry
bustle and a wild confusion. From the little scullery-maid, who was
giving the pots and pans a final scouring, to the queen herself, who
was being fitted with a new crown, not a soul in the palace was idle.
The great hall was all green, and red, and white; pine, and holly, and
mistletoe. The white pillars were twined with ivy and laurel; from the
rafters hung great clusters of mistletoe; and the walls were banked
with leaves and red berries. On each side of the royal dais stood a
shining, glistening Christmas-tree; and the galleries were hung low
with Christmas greens.
It was not long until the king and queen ascended their royal thrones,
the queen happy because the new crown was very becoming, and the king
that there was a grand feast in prospect.
The royal court assembled with laughter and gay words and smiling
faces; and of them all the princess Faunia was the most admired. Tall
and slim and beautiful, as the princess should be, with the dainty
grace of a young fawn and the proud young way of one, she stood by the
dais with a dark, handsome prince. Each time he spoke to her, although
his words were laughing, she knew that he loved her; and each time he
looked at her, his gay eyes said what his lips dared not speak. The
princess, like every one else in the room, was very, very happy.
In the kitchen below sat Bebelle, carving the last word upon his gift
for the king. His face was very pale; it looked even thinner than
usual. His great black eyes burned feverishly, and his hands worked
swiftly upon the word “_Love_.”
“I must not be late! I must not be late!” he said over and over again.
Most of the servants had left the kitchen and were sitting in the
gallery of the hall above, watching the royal pageant.
However, there was a little girl left in the room, who had to remain
behind in order to keep the fire going in the great fireplace.
“When will you give the king his gift?” she asked Bebelle.
“When all the others have given theirs and Shreve of the Fields alone
is left he will give the king his beautiful raven, and then he will
say, ‘There is still another, O King, who has a gift for you.’ Mother
Jorgan has promised to let me go with her up the stairs, and when
Shreve says this, then I will walk into the room and give the king his
scepter.”
“Shreve of the Fields may forget,” said the little girl, shrewdly; “he
thinks only of his birds and beasts, of others he has no thought. Old
Jason, the butler, says he has no soul.”
“Oh, yes, he has!” said Bebelle. “He is wild and timid like his
animals, though, and is afraid to show it. He has told me how some
nights he lies in his cave with his animals and longs for a human
friend. But you know, Sana, he is so beautiful and so different from
every one else that no one can be friends with him. But look what he
gave me! It is fairy moss, and Shreve says that if I carry it, I shall
be brave enough to walk through the great hall to the king and not be
ashamed of my ugly face.
Bebelle held up a little patch of silvery moss, the drops of dew
sparkling like diamonds upon it.
“Oh!” said the child, in awed wonder. “It is so beautiful! And do you
think it really has such power?”
“Why, yes, of course; Shreve told me so.”
“Ah!” sighed little Sana, “if I only had a tiny bit, I would not be so
afraid of the butler when he scolds me.”
Bebelle carefully tore the moss in half and gave Sana part of it.
“I must go back to my carving now,” he said, as the child tried to
thank him.
“And I to my fire. Oh, Bebelle! Look! Look!” cried Sana. “The fire has
gone out while I have been talking to you!”
“I will make you another.”
When Mother Jorgan came in, the fire was again burning brightly.
“Are you ready, Bebelle?” she asked, her voice trembling with
excitement. “Shreve is giving the king his raven.”
“No, dear Mother Jorgan, I have mended the fire for Sana instead.”
“You foolish boy!” and she tore the stick from his hand. “Why, of
course it is done! Is ‘_Love_’ not there as plainly as the other words?
Come, we must make haste or we shall be too late.”
As the two reached the door of the hall Shreve of the Fields was
standing before the royal dais, his proud lovely head thrown back and
one graceful arm stretched forth toward the king. On the tip of his
finger there perched a beautiful raven, all glossy black streaked with
purple, and as quiet as if it were still in the forest. As these two of
the woods stood there in their perfect, unaffected beauty everything
else about the gay court seemed curiously dwarfed and cheapened.
“O King,” he said, in his sweet, thrilling voice, “here is a gift for
you!”
As the raven flew from his hand to the king the courtiers crowded
around the radiant youth; and Mother Jorgan, in the doorway outside,
whispered to Bebelle: “Child, he has said nothing of you. If you still
wish to do this dreadful thing, you must enter unannounced.”
And so, with his scepter held closely in one arm, the child bravely
walked into the gay throng.
As he neared the throne the courtiers drew back on either side; and
standing before the royal dais, Bebelle said simply, “My King, I have
made you a new scepter for a Christmas gift.”
All about the throne lay precious and costly gifts; gold and
tapestries, silver and precious stones. On the arm of the king’s chair
perched the beautiful raven, and in the queen’s hand was a necklace of
diamonds, and rare aquamarines. Before them stood a child, strange and
grotesque, holding in his hand a rough piece of fire-wood.
“I have made you a new scepter,” he had said.
“Child,” said the king, and his voice was not unkind, “this is not
the time for you to appear before us.” And he motioned a page to lead
Bebelle from the room.
There was a painful silence as the child crept slowly from the bright
hall, one hand still clasping the rejected gift. The queen signed for
the fiddlers to begin their playing. The princess Faunia, who was
standing with the noble prince under the balcony, remarked that such
things were enough to spoil one’s Christmas. The prince comforted her,
and said if he had his will, nothing should ever happen to mar a single
moment of her entire life. The princess was even happier than before.
The queen told the king, who looked a little worried, that such things
naturally happen in such great households, and that, with the serving
of the royal banquet, things would be restored to their former gaiety.
This last suggestion comforted the king mightily; and, indeed, before
the page had even announced the banquet everything was as gay and merry
as it had been an hour before.
In the bright warm kitchen there was dance and song, and every one
there was happy, too.
That is, all but little Bebelle. He lay beside the oven, still holding
tightly to the scepter, saying nothing.
Mother Jorgan brought him a bowl of hot soup. He thanked her pitifully,
but would not touch it. Now and then one of the servants would come
to him and shyly, but kindly, ask him to come and have some of the
wassail. Shreve came down from the feast above. The baker gave him
thirteen loaves for his birds, and he stopped to speak to Bebelle.
“I am sorry, Bebelle,” he said, in his timid, winning way. “But I had
no chance to speak of you. It was a shame that the king refused your
gift. But come, do not be sad. Every one is sorry, and things will not
be made better by lying there.”
But Bebelle did not answer. The tears sprang to Shreve’s beautiful,
mysterious eyes.
“Would you like to come and sleep in my cave to-night?”
Bebelle gave a little gasp.
“Oh, Shreve,” he said, “that is the greatest thing in the world
that could happen to me! But somehow I feel as if that could not
be--to-night.”
So Shreve of the Fields went a little sadly out into the starry night.
It grew later. Slowly and reluctantly the servants left the warm,
friendly kitchen. Many stopped to speak kindly to the silent child, who
lay huddled in his corner.
At last, though, they had all left but a little page, who put out the
candles and skipped fearfully from the room. All was silent and dark.
The child lay there a long time.
Slowly and sweetly, through the still night a voice softly floated.
“Bebelle, little Bebelle!” it said; “come to the door.”
The child trembled, but did not get up.
Once again came the low, mellow voice: “Bebelle, I am waiting for you.
Come, open the door.”
As if in a dream he crept across the floor. Slowly he slid back the
great bolts and lifted the door latch.
There in the snowy dooryard was a glorious vision. A figure that
glowed and glistened against the snow like the fire and light of a
thousand diamonds. Over the head was a veil like lacy frost. From the
scintillating robes stretched a beautiful white hand.
“Come with me,” said the voice, “and I will make you a great ruler.”
Bebelle shrank back against the heavy door.
“Oh, no!” he cried, “I am not fit to be a ruler. I am ugly and poor,
and of no use to any one in the world.”
The vision reached out and took the scepter which Bebelle still clasped
to his breast.
As the firm white hand grasped it the rough wood turned to shining
gold and the letters carved upon it were set with pearls, and rubies,
and sapphires, and other precious stones.
“These words that you have carved upon the scepter,” said the high,
thrilling voice, “_Justice, Mercy, Verity, Lowliness, Devotion,
Patience, Courage, and, above all, Love_--these are the attributes of
a king. Only he who carves his own scepter, with these words upon it,
only he is fit to wield it. Again I summon you to come with me and I
will make you ruler of a great kingdom.”
And into the white night the child followed the steps of the vision.
[25] Reprinted from “St. Nicholas Magazine” with permission.