THE LITTLE MINER
THE next day the great cloud still hung over the mountain, and the rain
poured like water from a full sponge. The princess was very fond of
being out of doors, and she nearly cried when she saw that the weather
was no better. But the mist was not of such a dark dingy gray; there was
light in it; and as the hours went on, it grew brighter and brighter,
until it was almost too brilliant to look at; and late in the afternoon,
the sun broke out so gloriously that Irene clapped her hands, crying,
"See, see, Lootie! The sun has had his face washed. Look how bright he
is! Do get my hat, and let us go out for a walk. Oh dear! oh dear! how
happy I am!"
Lootie was very glad to please the princess. She got her hat and cloak,
and they set out together for a walk up the mountain; for the road was
so hard and steep that the water could not rest upon it, and it was
always dry enough for walking a few minutes after the rain ceased. The
clouds were rolling away in broken pieces, like great, overwoolly sheep,
whose wool the sun had bleached till it was almost too white for the
eyes to bear. Between them the sky shone with a deeper and purer blue,
because of the rain. The trees on the road-side were hung all over with
drops, which sparkled in the sun like jewels. The only things that were
no brighter for the rain, were the brooks that ran down the mountain;
they had changed from the clearness of crystal to a muddy brown; but
what they lost in color they gained in sound--or at least in noise, for
a brook when it is swollen is not so musical as before. But Irene was in
raptures with the great brown streams tumbling down everywhere; and
Lootie shared in her delight, for she too had been confined to the house
for three days. At length she observed that the sun was getting low, and
said it was time to be going back. She made the remark again and again,
but, every time, the princess begged her to go on just a little farther
and a little farther; reminding her that it was much easier to go down
hill, and saying that when they did turn, they would be at home in a
moment. So on and on they did go, now to look at a group of ferns over
whose tops a stream was pouring in a watery arch, now to pick a shining
stone from a rock by the wayside, now to watch the flight of some bird.
Suddenly the shadow of a great mountain peak came up from behind, and
shot in front of them. When the nurse saw it, she started and shook, and
tremulously grasping the hand of the princess turned and began to run
down the hill.
"What's all the haste, nursie?" asked Irene, running alongside of her.
"We must not be out a moment longer."
"But we can't help being out a good many moments longer."
It was too true. The nurse almost cried. They were much too far from
home. It was against express orders to be out with the princess one
moment after the sun was down; and they were nearly a mile up the
mountain! If his Majesty, Irene's papa, were to hear of it, Lootie
would certainly be dismissed; and to leave the princess would break her
heart. It was no wonder she ran. But Irene was not in the least
frightened, not knowing anything to be frightened at. She kept on
chattering as well as she could, but it was not easy.
"Lootie! Lootie! why do you run so fast? It shakes my teeth when I
talk."
"Then don't talk," said Lootie.
But the princess went on talking. She was always saying, "Look, look,
Lootie," but Lootie paid no more heed to anything she said, only ran on.
"Look, look, Lootie! Don't you see that funny man peeping over the
rock?"
Lootie only ran the faster. They had to pass the rock and when they came
nearer, the princess clearly saw that it was only a large fragment of
the rock itself that she had mistaken for a man.
"Look, look, Lootie! There's _such_ a curious creature at the foot of
that old tree. Look at it, Lootie! It's making faces at us, I do think."
Lootie gave a stifled cry, and ran faster still--so fast, that Irene's
little legs could not keep up with her, and she fell with a clash. It
was a hard down-hill road, and she had been running very fast--so it was
no wonder she began to cry. This put the nurse nearly beside herself;
but all she could do was to run on, the moment she got the princess on
her feet again.
"Who's that laughing at me?" said the princess, trying to keep in her
sobs, and running too fast for her grazed knees.
"Nobody, child," said the nurse, almost angrily.
But that instant there came a burst of coarse tittering from somewhere
near, and a hoarse indistinct voice that seemed to say, "Lies! lies!
lies!"
"Oh!" cried the nurse with a sigh that was almost a scream, and ran on
faster than ever.
"Nursie! Lootie! I can't run any more. Do let us walk a bit."
"What _am_ I to do?" said the nurse. "Here, I will carry you."
She caught her up; but found her much too heavy to run with, and had to
set her down again. Then she looked wildly about her, gave a great cry,
and said--
"We've taken the wrong turning somewhere, and I don't know where we are.
We are lost, lost!"
The terror she was in had quite bewildered her. It was true enough they
had lost the way. They had been running down into a little valley in
which there was no house to be seen.
Now Irene did not know what good reason there was for her nurse's
terror, for the servants had all strict orders never to mention the
goblins to her, but it was very discomposing to see her nurse in such a
fright. Before, however, she had time to grow thoroughly alarmed like
her, she heard the sound of whistling, and that revived her. Presently
she saw a boy coming up the road from the valley to meet them. He was
the whistler; but before they met, his whistling changed to singing. And
this is something like what he sang:
"Ring! dod! bang!
Go the hammers' clang!
Hit and turn and bore!
Whizz and puff and roar!
Thus we rive the rocks.
Force the goblin locks.
See the shining ore!
One, two, three--
Bright as gold can be!
Four, five, six--
Shovels, mattocks, picks!
Seven, eight, nine--
Light your lamp at mine.
Ten, eleven, twelve--
Loosely hold the helve.
We're the merry miner-boys,
Make the goblins hold their noise."
"I wish you would hold _your_ noise," said the nurse rudely, for the
very word goblin at such a time and in such a place made her tremble. It
would bring the goblins upon them to a certainty, she thought, to defy
them in that way. But whether the boy heard her or not, he did not stop
his singing.
"Thirteen, fourteen, fifteen--
This is worth the siftin';
Sixteen, seventeen, eighteen--
There's the match, and lay't in.
Nineteen, twenty--
Goblins in a plenty."
"Do be quiet," cried the nurse, in a whispered shriek. But the boy, who
was now close at hand, still went on.
"Hush! scush! scurry!
There you go in a hurry!
Gobble! gobble! gobblin'!
There you go a wobblin';
Hobble, hobble, hobblin'!
Cobble! cobble! cobblin'!
Hob-bob-goblin--Huuuuuh!"
"There!" said the boy, as he stood still opposite them. "There! that'll
do for them. They can't bear singing, and they can't stand that song.
They can't sing themselves, for they have no more voice than a crow; and
they don't like other people to sing."
The boy was dressed in a miner's dress, with a curious cap on his head.
He was a very nice-looking boy, with eyes as dark as the mines in which
he worked, and as sparkling as the crystals in their rocks. He was about
twelve years old. His face was almost too pale for beauty, which came of
his being so little in the open air and the sunlight--for even
vegetables grown in the dark are white; but he looked happy, merry
indeed--perhaps at the thought of having routed the goblins; and his
bearing as he stood before them had nothing clownish or rude about it.
"I saw them," he went on, "as I came up; and I'm very glad I did. I knew
they were after somebody, but I couldn't see who it was. They won't
touch you so long as I'm with you."
"Why, who are you?" asked the nurse, offended at the freedom with which
he spoke to them.
"I'm Peter's son."
"Who's Peter?"
"Peter the miner."
"I don't know him."
"I'm his son, though."
"And why should the goblins mind _you_, pray?"
"Because I don't mind them. I'm used to them."
"What difference does that make?"
"If you're not afraid of them, they're afraid of you. I'm not afraid of
them. That's all. But it's all that's wanted--up here, that is. It's a
different thing down there. They won't always mind that song even, down
there. And if anyone sings it, they stand grinning at him awfully; and
if he gets frightened, and misses a word, or says a wrong one, they--oh!
don't they give it him!"
"What do they do to him?" asked Irene, with a trembling voice.
"Don't go frightening the princess," said the nurse.
"The princess!" repeated the little miner, taking off his curious cap.
"I beg your pardon; but you oughtn't to be out so late. Everybody knows
that's against the law."
"Yes, indeed it is!" said the nurse, beginning to cry again. "And I
shall have to suffer for it."
"What does that matter?" said the boy. "It must be your fault. It is the
princess who will suffer for it. I hope they didn't hear you call her
the princess. If they did, they're sure to know her again: they're
awfully sharp."
"Lootie! Lootie!" cried the princess. "Take me home."
"Don't go on like that," said the nurse to the boy, almost fiercely.
"How could I help it? I lost my way."
"You shouldn't have been out so late. You wouldn't have lost your way if
you hadn't been frightened," said the boy. "Come along. I'll soon set
you right again. Shall I carry your little Highness?"
"Impertinence!" murmured the nurse, but she did not say it aloud, for
she thought if she made him angry, he might take his revenge by telling
some one belonging to the house, and then it would be sure to come to
the king's ears.
"No, thank you," said Irene. "I can walk very well, though I can't run
so fast as nursie. If you will give me one hand, Lootie will give me
another, and then I shall get on famously."
They soon had her between them, holding a hand of each.
"Now let's run," said the nurse.
"No, no," said the little miner. "That's the worst thing you can do. If
you hadn't run before, you would not have lost your way. And if you run
now, they will be after you in a moment."
"I don't want to run," said Irene.
"You don't think of _me_," said the nurse.
"Yes, I do, Lootie. The boy says they won't touch us if we don't run."
"Yes; but if they know at the house that I've kept you out so late, I
shall be turned away, and that would break my heart."
"Turned away, Lootie. Who would turn you away?"
"Your papa, child."
"But I'll tell him it was all my fault. And you know it was, Lootie."
"He won't mind that. I'm sure he won't."
"Then I'll cry, and go down on my knees to him, and beg him not to take
away my own dear Lootie."
The nurse was comforted at hearing this, and said no more. They went on,
walking pretty fast, but taking care not to run a step.
"I want to talk to you," said Irene to the little miner; "but it's so
awkward! I don't know your name."
"My name's Curdie, little princess."
"What a funny name! Curdie! What more?"
"Curdie Peterson. What's your name, please?"
"Irene."
"What more?"
"I don't know what more.--What more is my name, Lootie?"
"Princesses haven't got more than one name. They don't want it."
"Oh then, Curdie, you must call me just Irene, and no more."
"No, indeed," said the nurse indignantly. "He shall do no such thing."
"What shall he call me, then, Lootie?"
"Your royal Highness."
"My royal Highness! What's that? No, no, Lootie, I will not be called
names. I don't like them. You said to me once yourself that it's only
rude children that call names; and I'm sure Curdie wouldn't be
rude.--Curdie, my name's Irene."
"Well, Irene," said Curdie, with a glance at the nurse which showed he
enjoyed teasing her, "it's very kind of you to let me call you anything.
I like your name very much."
He expected the nurse to interfere again; but he soon saw that she was
too frightened to speak. She was staring at something a few yards before
them, in the middle of the path, where it narrowed between rocks so that
only one could pass at a time.
"It's very much kinder of you to go out of your way to take us home,"
said Irene.
"I'm not going out of my way yet," said Curdie. "It's on the other side
those rocks the path turns off to my father's."
"You wouldn't think of leaving us till we're safe home, I'm sure,"
gasped the nurse.
"Of course not," said Curdie.
"You dear, good, kind Curdie! I'll give you a kiss when we get home,"
said the princess.
The nurse gave her a great pull by the hand she held. But at that
instant the something in the middle of the way, which had looked like a
great lump of earth brought down by the rain, began to move. One after
another it shot out four long things, like two arms and two legs, but it
was now too dark to tell what they were. The nurse began to tremble from
head to foot. Irene clasped Curdie's hand yet faster, and Curdie began
to sing again.
"One, two--
Hit and hew!
Three, four--
Blast and bore!
Five, six--
There's a fix!
Seven, eight--
Hold it straight.
Nine, ten--
Hit again!
Hurry! scurry!
Bother! smother!
There's a toad
In the road!
Smash it!
Squash it!
Fry it!
Dry it!
You're another!
Up and off!
There's enough!--Huuuuuh!"
As he uttered the last words, Curdie let go his hold of his companion,
and rushed at the thing in the road, as if he would trample it under
his feet. It gave a great spring, and ran straight up one of the rocks
like a huge spider. Curdie turned back laughing, and took Irene's hand
again. She grasped his very tight, but said nothing till they had passed
the rocks. A few yards more and she found herself on a part of the road
she knew, and was able to speak again.
[Illustration: "Never mind, Princess Irene," he said. "You mustn't kiss
me to-night. But you sha'n't break your word. I will come another
time."]
"Do you know, Curdie, I don't quite like your song; it sounds to me
rather rude," she said.
"Well, perhaps it is," answered Curdie. "I never thought of that; it's a
way we have. We do it because they don't like it."
"Who don't like it?"
"The cobs, as we call them."
"Don't!" said the nurse.
"Why not?" said Curdie.
"I beg you won't. Please don't."
"Oh, if you ask me that way, of course I won't; though I don't a bit
know why. Look! there are the lights of your great house down below.
You'll be at home in five minutes now."
Nothing more happened. They reached home in safety. Nobody had missed
them, or even known they had gone out; and they arrived at the door
belonging to their part of the house without anyone seeing them. The
nurse was rushing in with a hurried and not over-gracious good-night to
Curdie; but the princess pulled her hand from hers, and was just
throwing her arms around Curdie's neck, when she caught her again and
dragged her away.
"Lootie, Lootie, I promised Curdie a kiss," cried Irene.
"A princess mustn't give kisses. It's not at all proper," said
Lootie.
"But I promised," said the princess.
"There's no occasion; he's only a miner-boy."
"He is a good boy, and a brave boy, and he has been very kind to us.
Lootie! Lootie! I promised."
"Then you shouldn't have promised."
"Lootie, I promised him a kiss."
"Your royal Highness," said Lootie, suddenly growing very respectful,
"must come in directly."
"Nurse, a princess must _not_ break her word," said Irene, drawing
herself up and standing stockstill.
Lootie did not know which the king might count the worst--to let the
princess be out after sunset, or to let her kiss a miner-boy. She did
not know that, being a gentleman, as many kings have been, he would have
counted neither of them the worse. However much he might have disliked
his daughter to kiss the miner-boy, he would not have had her break her
word for all the goblins in creation. But, as I say, the nurse was not
lady enough to understand this, and so she was in a great difficulty,
for, if she insisted, some one might hear the princess cry and run to
see, and then all would come out. But here Curdie came again to the
rescue.
"Never mind, Princess Irene," he said. "You mustn't kiss me to-night.
But you sha'n't break your word. I will come another time. You may be
sure I will."
"Oh, thank you, Curdie!" said the princess, and stopped crying.
"Good night, Irene; good night, Lootie," said Curdie, and turned and was
out of sight in a moment.
"I should like to see him!" muttered the nurse, as she carried the
princess to the nursery.
"You _will_ see him," said Irene. "You may be sure Curdie will keep his
word. He's _sure_ to come again."
"I should like to see him!" repeated the nurse, and said no more. She
did not want to open a new cause of strife with the princess by saying
more plainly what she meant. Glad enough that she had succeeded both in
getting home unseen, and in keeping the princess from kissing the
miner's boy, she resolved to watch her far better in future. Her
carelessness had already doubled the danger she was in. Formerly the
goblins were her only fear; now she had to protect her charge from
Curdie as well.