She had also the same golden hair, and, as she grew up, the king saw how
like she was to his lost wife. He told his councilors that he wished to
marry his daughter to his oldest councilor, and that she should be as
queen. When the oldest councilor heard this he was delighted. But the
daughter was frightened at the resolve of the king, and hoped yet to
turn him from his intention. So she said to him, “Before I fulfill your
wish I must first have three dresses: one as golden as the sun, another
as silver as the moon, and a third as shining as the stars; further, I
desire a cloak composed of thousands of skins and hides, and to which
every beast in your kingdom must contribute a portion of his skin.”
The princess thought this would be impossible to do, and so she should
reclaim her father from his intention. But the king would not give it up,
and the cleverest maidens in his kingdom had to weave the three dresses,
one as golden as the sun, a second as silver as the moon, and a third as
shining as the stars, while his huntsmen had to catch all the beasts in
the whole kingdom and from each take a piece of skin wherewith a mantle
of a thousand pieces was made. At length, when all was ready, the king
let the mantle be fetched, and, spreading it before him, said, “Tomorrow
shall the wedding be.”
When the king’s daughter now saw that there was no hope left of turning
her father from his resolve, she determined to flee away. In the night,
while all slept, she got up and took three of her treasures, a golden
ring, a gold spinning wheel, and a gold reel; she put also in a nutshell
the three dresses of the sun, moon, and stars, and putting on the
mantle of all skins, she dyed her hands and face black with soot. Then,
commending herself to God, she set off and traveled the whole night till
she came to a large wood, where, feeling very tired, she took refuge in
a hollow tree and went to sleep. The sun rose, and she still slept and
slept on till it was again far into the morning. Then it happened that
the king who owned this forest came to hunt in it. As soon as his dogs
ran to the tree they snapped about it, barked, and growled, so that the
king said to his huntsmen, “See what wild animal it is that is concealed
there.” The hunters obeyed his orders, and, when they returned, they
said, “In that hollow lies a wonderful creature whose like we have never
before seen; its skin is composed of a thousand different colors, but it
lies quite quiet and asleep.” The king said, “Try if you can catch it
alive, and then bind it to the carriage, and we will take it with us.”
As soon as the hunters caught hold of the maiden, she awoke full of
terror, and called out to them, “I am a poor child forsaken by both
father and mother! Pray pity me, and take me with you!” They named her
“Allerleirauh,” because of her mantle, and took her home with them to
serve in the kitchen and rake out the ashes. They went to the royal
palace, and there they showed her a little stable under the step where
no daylight could enter, and told her she could live and sleep there.
Afterwards she went into the kitchen, and there she had to carry water
and wood to make the fire, to pluck the fowls, to peel the vegetables, to
rake out the ashes, and to do all manner of dirty work.
Here, for a length of time, Allerleirauh lived wretchedly; but it
happened once that a feast was held in the palace, and she asked the
cook, “May I go and look on for a little while? I will place myself just
outside the door.” The cook said, “Yes, but in half an hour’s time you
must return and rake out the ashes.”
Allerleirauh took an oil lamp, and, going to her stable, put off the
gown of skins and washed the soot from her face and hands so that her
real beauty was displayed. Then she opened her nut and took out the
dress which shone as the sun, and as soon as she was ready she went up
to the ballroom, where every one made way for her, supposing that she
was certainly some princess. The king himself soon came up to her, and,
taking her hand, danced with her, thinking the while in his heart that he
had never seen any one like her. As soon as the dance was finished she
disappeared, and nobody knew whither. The watchmen stationed at the gates
were called and questioned, but they had not seen her.
She had run back to her stable and, having quickly taken off her dress,
had again blackened her face and hands, put on the dress of all skins,
and became “Allerleirauh” once more. As soon as she went into the kitchen
to do her work in sweeping up the ashes, the cook said, “Let that be for
once till the morning, and cook the king’s supper for me instead, while
I go upstairs to have a peep; but mind you do not let one of your hairs
fall in, or you will get nothing to eat for the future.”
So saying, he went away, and Allerleirauh cooked the king’s supper,
making some soup as good as she possibly could, and when it was ready she
went into the stable, and fetched her gold ring, and laid it in the dish.
When the dance was at an end, the king ordered his supper to be brought,
which, when he had tasted, he thought he had never eaten anything so nice
before. Just as he nearly finished it he saw a gold ring at the bottom,
and, not being able to imagine how it came there, he commanded the cook
to be brought before him. The cook was terrified when he heard this
order, and said to Allerleirauh, “Are you certain you did not let a hair
fall into the soup? For if it is so, you will catch a beating.”
Then he came before the king, who asked who had cooked the supper, and he
answered, “I did.” But the king said, “That is not true; for it is of a
much better kind and much better cooked than usual.” Then the cook said,
“I must confess that not I, but Allerleirauh, cooked it.” So that the
king commanded that she should be brought up.
When Allerleirauh came, the king asked, “Who are you?”
“I am a poor child, without father or mother,” replied she.
“Why did you come to my palace?” then inquired the king.
“I am good for nothing else but to have the boots thrown at my head,”
said she.
The king asked again, “Where did you get this ring, then, which was in
the soup?”
Allerleirauh said, “I know nothing of it.” And, as she would say no more,
she was at last sent away.
After a time there was another ball, and Allerleirauh asked the cook’s
permission to go again and look on, and he consented, and told her,
“Return here in half an hour to cook the king again the same soup which
he liked so much before.”
Allerleirauh ran into the stable and, washing herself quickly, took out
of the shell the dress which was silver as the moon, and put it on. Then
she went up to the ballroom and appeared like a princess, and the king,
stepping up to her, was very glad to see her again; and, as the dancing
had just begun, they joined it. But as soon as it was over, his partner
disappeared so quickly that the king did not notice where she went. She
ran to her stable and changed her garments again, and then went into the
kitchen to make the soup. While the cook was upstairs, she fetched the
golden spinning wheel and put it in the tureen, so that the soup was
served up with it. Afterwards it was brought before the king, who ate it,
and found it tasted as good as the former; and the cook was called, who
was obliged to confess again that Allerleirauh had made it. Allerleirauh
was accordingly taken before the king, but she repeated what she had
before said, that she was of no use but to have boots thrown at her, and
that she knew nothing of the gold spinning wheel.
Not long afterwards a third feast was given by the king, at which
everything went as before. The cook said to Allerleirauh when she asked
leave to go, “You are certainly a witch, and always put something in the
soup which makes it taste better than mine. Still, since you beg so hard,
you shall go at the usual time.” This time she put on the dress shining
as the stars, and stepped with it into the ballroom. The king danced
again with her, and thought he had never seen any maiden so beautiful,
and while the dance went on he slipped the gold ring on to her finger
without her perceiving it and told the musicians to prolong the time.
When at last it ended, he would have kept fast hold of her hand, but she
tore herself away, and sprang so quickly in among the people that she
disappeared from his sight. Allerleirauh ran as well as she could back to
her stable; but she had stayed over and above the half hour, and she had
not time to pull off her beautiful dress, but was obliged to throw over
it her cloak of skins. Neither did she quite finish the blacking of her
skin, but left one finger white. Then she ran into the kitchen, cooked
the soup for the king, and put in it the reel, while the cook stayed
upstairs. Afterwards, when the king found the reel at the bottom of his
soup, he summoned Allerleirauh, and perceived at once her white finger,
and the ring which he had put on it during the dance. He took her by the
hand and held her fast, and when she tried to force herself from him and
run away, her cloak of skins fell partly off and the starry dress was
displayed to view. The king then pulled the cloak wholly off, and down
came her golden hair, and there she stood in all her beauty, and could no
longer conceal herself. As soon, then, as the soot and ashes were washed
off her face, she stood up and appeared more beautiful than any one could
conceive possible on earth. But the king said to her, “You are my dear
bride, and we will never separate from each other.” Thereupon was the
wedding celebrated, and they lived happily to the end of their lives.
THE POOR MAN AND THE RICH MAN
RETOLD FROM GRIMM
(_Folk Tale—Ethics, teaching kindness_)
In olden times, when the good angels walked the earth in the form of men,
it happened that one of them, while he was wandering about very tired,
saw night coming upon him before he had found a shelter. But there stood
on the road close by two houses opposite to one another, one of which
was large and handsome, while the other appeared miserably poor. The
former belonged to a rich man, and the other to a poor man, so that the
angel thought he could lodge with the former, because it would be less
burdensome to him than to the other to entertain a guest. Accordingly
he knocked at the door, and the rich man, opening the window, asked the
stranger what he sought. The angel replied, “I seek a night’s lodging.”
Then the rich man scanned the stranger from head to foot, and perceiving
that he wore ragged clothes, and seemed like one who had not much money
in his pocket, he shook his head and said, “I cannot take you in; my
rooms are full of herbs and seeds, and, should I shelter every one who
knocks at my door, I might soon take the beggar’s staff into my own hand.
Seek a welcome elsewhere.”
So saying, he shut his window to, and left the good angel, who
immediately turned his back upon him and went over to the little house.
Here he had scarcely knocked, when the door was opened and the poor man
bade the wanderer welcome, and said, “Stop here this night with me; it
is quite dark, and today you can go no farther.” This reception pleased
the angel much, and he walked in; and the wife of the poor man also bade
him welcome and, holding out her hand, said, “Make yourself at home, and
though it is not much that we have, we will give it to you with all our
heart.” Then she placed some potatoes at the fire, and while they roasted
she milked her goat for something to drink with them. When the table was
laid, the good angel sat down and ate with them, and the rude fare tasted
good, because they who partook of it had happy faces. After they had
finished, when bedtime came, the wife called the husband aside and said
to him, “Let us sleep tonight on straw, my dear, that this poor wanderer
may have our bed whereon to rest himself, for he has been walking all day
long, and is doubtless very tired.”
“With all my heart,” replied her husband; “I will offer it to him;” and,
going up to the angel, he begged him, if he pleased, to lie in their bed
that he might rest his limbs thoroughly. The good angel at first refused
to take the bed of his hosts, but at last he yielded to their entreaties
and lay down, while they made a straw couch upon the ground. The next
morning they arose early and cooked their guest a breakfast of the best
that they had, and when the sun shone through the window he got up, too,
and, after eating with them, prepared to set out again. When he stood in
the doorway he turned round and said to his hosts, “Because you are so
compassionate and pious, you may wish three times and I will grant, each
time, what you desire.”
The poor man replied, “Ah, what else can I wish than eternal happiness,
and that we two, so long as we live, may have health and strength and
our necessary daily bread? For the third thing I know not what to wish.”
“Will you not wish for a new house in place of this old one?” asked the
angel.
“Oh, yes!” said the man, “if I may keep on this spot, so would it be
welcome.”
Then the good angel fulfilled his wishes and changed their old house into
a new one, and, giving them once more his blessing, went out of the house.
It was already broad daylight when the rich man arose and, looking out
of his window, saw a handsome new house of red brick where formerly an
old hut had stood. The sight made him open his eyes, and he called his
wife up and asked, “Tell me what has happened; yesterday evening an old,
miserable hut stood opposite, and today there is a fine new house! Run
out and hear how this has happened!”
The wife went and asked the poor man, who related that the evening before
a wanderer had come, seeking a night’s lodging, and that in the morning
he had taken his leave, and granted them three wishes—eternal happiness,
health and food during their lives, and instead of their old hut, a fine
new house. When he had finished his tale, the wife of the rich man ran
home and told her husband all that had passed, and he exclaimed, “Ah! had
I only known it! The stranger had been here before, and would have passed
the night with us, but I sent him away.”
“Hasten, then!” returned his wife. “Mount your horse, and perhaps you may
overtake the man, and then you must ask three wishes for yourself also.”
The rich man followed this advice, and soon overtook the angel. He spoke
softly and glibly, begging that the angel would not take it ill that he
had not let him in at first, for that he had gone to seek the key of the
house door, and meanwhile he had gone away, but if the angel came back
the same way he would be glad if he would call again. The angel promised
that he would come on his return, and the rich man then asked if he might
not wish thrice as his neighbor had been allowed. “Yes,” said the angel,
“you may certainly, but it will not be good for you, and it were better
you did not wish.”
But the rich man thought he might easily obtain something which would
tend to his happiness, if he only knew that it would be fulfilled, and
so the angel at length said, “Ride home, and the three wishes which you
shall make shall be answered.”
The rich man now had what he desired, and, as he rode homewards, began
to consider what he should wish. While he thought he let his rein fall
loose, and his horse presently began to jump, so that he was jerked
about, and so much so that he could fix his mind on nothing. He patted
his horse on the neck, and said, “Be quiet, Bess!” but it only began
fresh friskings, so that at last he became savage, and cried quite
impatiently, “I wish you might break your neck!” No sooner had he said
so than down it fell upon the ground and never moved again, and thus the
first wish was fulfilled. But the rich man, being covetous by nature,
would not leave the saddle behind, and so, cutting it off, he slung it
over his back and went onwards on foot. “You still have two wishes,”
thought he to himself, and so was comforted, but as he slowly passed
over the sandy common the sun scorched him terribly, for it was midday,
and he soon became vexed and passionate; moreover, the saddle hurt his
back; and besides, he had not yet decided what to wish for. “If I should
wish for all the treasures and riches in the world,” said he to himself,
“hereafter something or other will occur to me, I know beforehand; but I
will so manage that nothing at all shall remain for me to wish for.”
Many times he thought he knew what to wish, but soon it appeared too
little. Then it came into his thoughts how well his wife was situated,
sitting at home in a cool room, and appropriately dressed. This idea
angered him uncommonly, and, without knowing it, he said aloud, “I wish
she were sitting upon this saddle, and could not get off it, instead of
its being slipping about on my back.”
As soon as these words were out of his mouth, the saddle disappeared
from his back, and he perceived that his second wish had passed its
fulfillment. Now he became very hot, and began to run, intending to
lock himself up in his room and consider there something great for his
last wish. But when he arrived and opened the house door he found his
wife sitting upon the saddle in the middle of the room, and crying
and shrieking because she could not get off. So he said to her, “Be
contented; I will wish for the riches in all the world, only keep sitting
there.”
But his wife shook her head, saying, “Of what use are all the riches of
the world to me, if I sit upon this saddle? You have wished me on it, and
you must also wish me off.”
So, whether he liked it or not, he was forced to utter his third wish,
that his wife might be freed from the saddle, and immediately it was
done. Thus the rich man gained nothing from his wishes but vexation,
trouble, scolding, and a lost horse; but the poor people lived contented
and pious to their lives’ end.
THE SILVER CONES
ADAPTED FROM STORY BY JOHANNA SPYRI
(_Ethics—Geography_)
In the mountain land of Bohemia there lived in the long ago a miner with
his wife and little daughter. They were happy in their hut in the forest,
but after a time the father and mother died, and the child was left
alone in the world. She had no money, and no aunts or cousins to take her
in, and it seemed as if she would have to go hungry. But always there are
kindly hearts among the poor, and one of the miners opened his house that
she might have a home. He had six children of his own and little bread
and meat to spare, but his good wife said, “We will divide what we have.”
So little Hilda became one of the family, and they grew to love her very
much.
It was midwinter, and Christmas day not far away. The children thought of
nothing but the coming of St. Nicholas, who they hoped would not forget
them on the Holy Night, when every boy and girl in Bohemia expects a
visit from the gift bringer. But when they spoke to the miner about it he
shook his head and said, “Do not set your hearts upon his coming. Our hut
is very small and stands so far in the forest that he may not be able to
find it.”
Gretchen, his little daughter, had a very different idea. She declared
St. Nicholas could find a house in the dark if it were no bigger than an
ant hill, and went to bed to dream of the toys and sweetmeats he would
bring.
Day after day passed, and nearer, nearer came the season of Christ’s
birth. The children talked of him as they sat by the fire at night, as
they picked up dead branches in the forest, and as they bedded the goats
and shut them in, for Bohemian mountain folk are a toiling people, and
even boys and girls must work.
At last the day before Christmas came, and in the afternoon little Hilda
started out with her basket to get some cones. She wanted the fire to be
brighter and more cheerful than ever that night, and perhaps if she met
a servant from the castle, he might take some to feed the prince’s fire,
and give her a silver piece.
“And if he does,” she thought as she trudged on her way, “I can buy
something for the miner and his dear children.”
Now, in that land of Bohemia, on the summit of a lofty mountain, a
creature named Rübezahl made his home. He possessed all magic powers, and
was so mighty that his sway extended to the very center of the earth.
There he had chambers of gold and silver, and diamonds and jewels without
number, and often gave of his treasures to those who were good enough to
deserve them. He could change himself at will into any form. Now he was
a bat flying in the night, now a country swain selling his wares at the
fair, and now a woodman cutting down trees in the forest, because thus he
was able to find out who was worthy and who unworthy, and to reward or
punish them as they deserved.
Hilda had often heard of the strange ways of Rübezahl, and wondered if he
would ever cross her path.
“I suppose not,” she murmured, “because I am just a little girl.”
As she came near the fir trees, a tiny white-haired man walked out of the
shadow. He had a long white beard and a jolly red face, and looked as if
he were the friend of children.
“What are you doing?” he called to her.
“I’ve come to gather cones,” she replied; “some for our fire and some to
sell, if the servant from the castle will only buy.”
Then she told him of the miner’s family, of how eager she was to get some
money that she might buy a gift for his children, and of her hope that
St. Nicholas would not forget them on the Holy Night.
The little old man seemed much interested, and when she finished her
story he said, “The largest cones are on that tree. If you hope to sell,
gather the best ones.”
He pointed to a great, dark fir just beyond them, and then went back into
the shadows of the forest.
Little Hilda thanked him and ran to the spot. She could see the cones
like beehives on the branches, and just as she came under them there was
such a downfall of beautiful brown things it frightened her and she
began to run. But thinking of what she could do with such big ones, she
went back, filled her basket, and started homeward.
It was very heavy, and the farther she went the heavier it grew.
“I’ll have to ask little Gretchen to help me take it up the hill path
to the castle,” she thought. But by the time she reached the hut it had
become such a load she could not move it, and the miner had to carry it
in himself.
“They are lovely big ones and of a beautiful brown color,” she said as
the children crowded around to see.
But when they looked at the basket again, they saw no brown at all.
Instead there was a gleam brighter than that of the moonbeams through the
fir trees, for a wonderful thing had happened. In the twinkling of an eye
every one of those cones had turned into shining silver, which sparkled
and glistened so that they dazzled the eyes.
Then the little girl remembered the old man in the forest and told the
miner about him.
He nodded his head in a knowing way and said, “Surely it was Rübezahl,
and he has rewarded you for being sweet and gentle.”
All of which seemed like a dream to little Hilda, but when she looked
into the basket she knew it was true. And so knew all the other mountain
folk, when the stars of the Holy Night shone out and the children went
from door to door distributing silver cones. The good folk who gave her a
home received so many that never again were they poor. They built a fine
house with a porch and twenty windows, and were as rich as any one in
Bohemia.
To make things lovelier still, St. Nicholas found the hut, just as
Gretchen had said he would, and left some sweets and toys for the
children. He laughed loud and long when he saw the shining cones, for he
had heard all about it from Rübezahl himself.
This all happened very, very long ago, in the time so far away that
even the oldest grandmother cannot remember the Holy Night when Hilda
gave precious gifts to the miners; but the story has come down from the
fathers and the fathers’ fathers, and that is why, even to this day, the
mountain folk of Bohemia still deck their Christmas trees with silvered
cones.
THE FORGET-ME-NOT
ADAPTED FROM VERSION BY HOFFMAN VON FALLERSLEBEN
(_Thuringian Folk Tale—Helpful in Nature Study_)
In the beginning of things, when God the Father created every beast
of the forest and every bird and tree and blossom, he gave each one a
name, and the snowdrop, the lily, the pansy, the violet, and all the
other flower sisterhood rejoiced and were glad, for each thought its own
name the loveliest in the world. Everywhere in field and woodland there
was happiness, and the blossoms lifted their faces toward heaven in
gratitude, thanking the Gracious Giver.
But suddenly there was a sound of weeping. Somewhere in the meadow a
flower had raised its voice in sorrow, and all the other flowers looked
to see. At first they could not tell whence the sound came, then they
beheld a tiny blossom, with petals the color of heaven and a heart the
color of gold. It was sobbing bitterly, and the lily, looking down in
pity, asked, “Why weepest thou?”
“Alas,” came the reply, “I have forgotten my name.” Then—wonderful
sound—the primrose and the violet and the pansy heard the voice of God
the Father, for although the blossom was very tiny and half hidden by the
grasses of the field, He heard and saw and knew.
“Forgotten your name?” He spake in tones that were sweet and tender.
“Then shalt thou be called ‘Forget-me-not,’ for that thou canst always
remember.”